


Whose Line is it Anyway?

by ProtoNeoRomantic



Series: All Things Proceed from Passion [3]
Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: A certain God who shall remain nameless, Afghanistan, Animal Transformation, Arranged Marriage, Bad Parenting, Betrayal, Bisexuality, Body Dysphoria, Bodyswap, Canon Character of Color, Casual Sex, Childbirth, Class Issues, Conspiracies, Demon Deals, Drug Use, Dysfunctional Family, Episode: s01e06 The Pack, Episode: s03e18 Earshot, Exes, Existential Angst, Extremely Dubious Consent, Extremely Underage, F/F, F/M, Family Dynamics, Fate & Destiny, Forced Pregnancy, Fpreg, Fundamentalism, Gen, Gender or Sex Swap, Genderism, High School Never Ends, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Insecurity, Institutionalized Prejudices, Islam, Juvenile Justice, Labels, Legacies, Legal Drama, Living Vampires, M/M, Magic, Massacres, Mirrors, Miscarriage, Moving Dead Bodies, Mpreg, Multi, Oh! THAT 'Goddess Hecate'?, Or...something, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pagan Gods, Parent-Child Relationship, Past Child Abuse, Past Domestic Violence, Past Incest, Patriarchy, Polygamy, Power Dynamics, Pregnancy, Racism, Racist Characters, Relationship Revisionist Disorder, Religion, Rituals, Scary Horrible Watchers, Secret Vampires, Secrets, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Identity, Subtext Becoming Text, Taliban - Freeform, Teen Pregnancy, Terrorism, The Prom Queen Within, The Talk, The way men and women have behaved for centuries, Transpossession, Underage Smoking, Vampire Politics, Vampire Technology, Vanity, Wakes & Funerals, Watchers are a law unto themselves, Wedding Night, Weddings, What Doesn't Kill You Can Still Seriously Mess You Up, Wolfram & Hart, ancestry, child bride, expect sequels, fake religious conversion, incarceration, murders, paternalism, power, selfdelusion, threats of suicide, tradition, underage marriage, vampire ecconomics, what you pretend to be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-03-05 12:42:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 14
Words: 75,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3120551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProtoNeoRomantic/pseuds/ProtoNeoRomantic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Follow Up to "Who Do You Think You Are?"<br/>Buffy comes from a long line of Chosen heroes.  Giles comes from a long line of dedicated Watchers.  Everybody seems to come from a long line of something.  This is what happens when the lines start to blur.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beyond Understanding

**Author's Note:**

> Chapters 1-5 make up Part I: "Peace, Love & Judgment". Chapters 6-14 make up Part II: "Missing and Exploited Children"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Watchers and others bury their dead, the web of lies, scheming and manipulation that passes for life in a cold, dark, unforgiving universe goes on.

London, U.K., Monday, April 20, 1998

 

Heavy, somber organ music filled the church. Buffy felt self-conscious taking up a place so near the front, directly behind the four rows reserved for family. This spot should have been filled by an honest mourner. There were other funerals they should have been at, or Giles should have anyway, of people he actually cared for, or at least, didn't hate. For her part, Buffy had barely met Micheal Dunstan, and yet he had been a bitter enemy. He had died fighting to destroy their happiness. And now here she was at his funeral, standing between his murderer's son and the son of a woman he had helped to murder. Standing out of respect, as the family were ushered in. Respect she did not feel. Not even a tiny little bit. The man was a piece of shit.

And someone who thought that should not get a seat so close to the front, probably shouldn't be here at all, in fact. It wasn't right. But it was appropriate. It was politic. It was bullshit. But it was bullshit that mattered to the Council and therefore to Giles. Buffy felt a stab of something oddly like guilt at the realization of just how deeply she resented the Council and it's bullshit still mattering so much to Giles. She felt as if she wasn't being loyal enough or understanding enough or something. There he stood on his crutches, still injured, still hurting, still ruffled and red in the face from having to vigorously insist upon being released from the hospital at the crack of dawn to be here. Still tense as a bag of wet cats from having to stand next to his father and not kill him.

At least the 'Grand Old Man' had shown up sober, which Buffy guessed was a concession to the dignity of the occasion rather than a sign of any actual respect for the dead, though he was certainly committing to his role as a great big stoic, appropriate, politic chunk of granite. Regardless, under the circumstance, Giles needed her support, Buffy firmly reminded herself, not her judgment. But Buffy couldn't help feeling just a little bit judgey, surrounded as she was by smug, self-important hypocrites and killers who _still_ thought they had a right to punish her, who _still_ thought they had a right to punish Giles, who were planning a meeting tonight do just that. Yes, Buffy judged them. And why shouldn't she? After all, dealing out judgment, punishment was what Slayers did best. And Watchers too apparently.

But Giles had made it more than clear that she was to restrain herself today, even verbally. In fact, she shouldn't even glare. She had to take whatever these people dished out and be polite about it, even if they weren't. “I’ve seen enough of vengeance for one lifetime,” Giles had said at the hospital the night before, when she'd tried to bring up the subject of his mother's murder and what, if anything, they could do about it. “I have given and received at least my share of punishment in this world. I don’t want ‘justice’; I want peace.” Buffy had said nothing in response. What was there to say? She was trying to take his words at face value. She'd been trying all night and all morning. He seemed sincere enough. And, as mentioned, he needed her love and support. And it was his mother, not hers.

Besides, anyone could see that the Council was dangerously unstable already from the sheer fact that there didn't seem to be a lot of mourning going on at this funeral, at least not for the guest of honor. The faces were grim enough overall, but actual tears were few and far between, and most of those were in the eyes of people who'd lost someone else in Friday's massacre. Sly, calculating looks and hurried, electrified whispers, on the other hand, were not so rare. Everyone seemed to be working a plan or an angle of some kind, or at least gossiping breathlessly about what everyone else must be planning. In fact, about the only people not acting like they were working the crowd at the last pep rally before the voting closed on Homecoming Queen were the Equals and Heirs themselves. At that level, it was all about holding your rightful position, literally as well as figuratively. Which was why the dregs and therefore technically heirs of the House of Weregelder had no choice but to sit together, very near the front, lest order be overthrown into chaos and the heavens fall. See above re moral support needed to stand next to Andrew Giles.

But as she stood at her husband's side among all those rows and rows of carefully arranged ladies and gentlemen (all so jealous and conscious of their ranks and positions, whatever the circumstances) Buffy couldn’t quite shake the feeling that the Watchers were circling the wagons. Closing ranks against the outside world. And that there was no place inside that circle for savages like Buffy Summers. Or like Dahlia Harrow.

*****

The night before the first day of her more-or-less senior year of high school, Willow sat up in her bunk, studying. Sort of. She was pouring over tomes of magical and arcane lore. Trying to unravel a mystery. To her intense surprise, her Computer Science final had been written just for her based on Ms. Calendar's notes of what she could actually do, which for a double credit advanced tutorial probably made sense, but it had taken a chunk out of her Saturday, leaving her only a couple of hours of free time in the lab. Hours she had tried to put to good use by emailing Xander, only to find that not only did the JDC computers lack any sort of email client software, but access to webmail was actually blocked. Of course, it was nothing she couldn't hack, but the way it was set up, it seemed like it could take more than a couple of hours. It would have to wait until Monday, Willow had decided.

But the connection and browser were working fine, and with a tiny glamor to make it appear that she was still finishing up her test, Willow had set about looking into things she felt she really needed to know. She had started with the back issues of the local papers, researching the history of the Mayor’s office. Everyone knew, of course, that the Mayor had always been a Wilkins. The town’s Founder, Richard Wilkins Sr., had been elected on the very day that the town charter was signed in 1899 and he or his son or grandson every seven years thereafter right up to last year, usually unopposed.

Usually but not always. In ninety-nine years, only three people had thrown their hats into the ring against an incumbent Mayor of Sunnydale. By election day, each and every one of them had been dead. They were Ananias Gleaves (in 1906), Kasper Randolph (in 1941) and Sarah Levine-Grossman in 1962. The first two campaigns had been extensively covered. To judge by the _Times_ , Gleaves had been the devil himself, while the _Sun_ held him out to be little short of the second coming. Neither had had anything very nice to say about Randolph, whom they agreed was a Nazi sympathizer, but the _Sun_ had made ugly though vague insinuations about the manner of his death. Shortly before the editor’s widow was forced to sell out to the _Times_.

But in Sarah’s case the consolidated publication had been eerily silent. There had been a few vague references to ‘forces of instability even here in Sunnydale’ in the Fall and Winter of 1961, references that seemed to suggest without saying that there were Communists in town. In fact there had been a brief mention in the spring of ’62 of a ‘Leftist’ who had filed for the office but would be 'no match' for The Mayor. On July 5th, it had been reported that the ‘Leftist Gathering’ that had been broken up the day before, had, despite rumors to the contrary, involved only ‘professional dissenters,’ almost none of them locals, certainly no Christian locals.

The reports of the Mayor’s death had made no mention of who his supposed killers were at all except to darkly suggest that everyone already knew. Then there had been the July 21st piece, the one that called all of the Levines murderers and their fiery deaths a miracle of divine vengeance. No mention of the election. In fact, no one could have learned from the _Sun-Times_ that Sarah had ever run for anything if it hadn't been for the reprint of an AP story: “Dead Candidates Face Off In Small Town Contest”. Wilkins’s votes had been counted for his son as if by right of primogenitor. There had been no mention of what would have happened if Sarah had won. Both the fire and the death of the previous Mayor Wilkins had been referred to as ‘accidents’.

Willow was still trying to absorb the fact that her ancestors had been mass murdered over a small town election. Even in a place like Sunnydale, it made so little sense. There had to be more to it. Didn't there? Of course, she had reasoned with herself, it made more sense than enslaving and violating your only child to become a cheerleader, or killing people you barely knew to become a hyena. At least the Mayors office held a little power. And in a place that was so much it's own world as Sunnydale was... maybe it felt like a lot. Maybe. But whether any of that made sense or not, Willow had had no time to sit and processes. With less than an hour of lab time left, she had swallowed her anger and confusion and kept digging.

A quick search had found no indication of what had become of Sunnydale’s first mayor. Where the _Sun_ and the _Times_ separately had referred to the Mayor simply as Richard Wilkins, the _Sun-Times_ referred to Richard Wilkins Jr., and that was that.  Then Willow had found an old tintype photograph of the Founder from 1899. He had been the same age that the current Mayor was now. The resemblance between them was more than remarkable, it was unbelievable. They looked like exactly the same man. She'd found another photo of him from 1913 and one from 1918 and another, and another, right up to the election of 1941. In each of these photos, he had been the same age that the current Mayor was now. The resemblance between them was more than remarkable, it was unbelievable. They looked like exactly the same man. 

Willow didn't know exactly what it all meant, but it meant something. If Mayor Wilkins was something other than human, then his wholesale slaughter of the Levines had to be about more than who had control over fixing streetlamps and putting in sewer lines. Willow had barely survived spending Sunday away from the computer lab, unable to follow up. Other than the thirty minutes she'd actually gotten to spend with Ms. Waddle, talking about next to nothing, she'd been forced to spend most of the day outside in the tiny 'play yard' watching other girls play volley-ball without the benefit of knowing any rules.

She'd spent her time snacking and cat napping, being actively unobtrusive. And becoming more and more certain that her not-much-need-for-sleep spell was wearing off. Now here she sat, ignoring her still grumbling, roiling, inexplicably underfed stomach as she painstakingly paged through infinite volumes of mystical texts looking for an explanation as to what kind of man or beast could wear the same, unchanging, human face for a century yet never fear the light of day. 

Finally, Willow broke down and opened yet another packet of those odd tasting, pretzelly textured snack crackers Ms. Waddle had brought her this morning. She'd resisted for two reasons, having nothing to do with the fact that a salted paper bag probably would have tasted better. First off, if she kept eating them at this rate, she'd run out long before Sunday came again. Secondly, they made her sleepy. And if there was one thing she didn't need any more of, it was sleep. Besides, Willow just felt... weird about the crackers. Ms. Waddle had said they would 'help keep her strength up', but then when Willow had told her that she needed exactly that because she was 'sleeping a lot more efficiently' thanks to some 'mutual friends', the Witch had suddenly seemed to become nervous about giving them to her, warning her not to eat too many at once. 

Nevertheless, Willow was hungry. She took one cracker out, gingerly took a bite. Soon she had devoured the whole package. Six packs gone of the fourteen that were meant to last a week. And as soon as she had eaten them, she felt an overwhelming desire to lay her book down, close her eyes, and sleep. As she drifted off she thought, _how strange that Ms. Waddle should know to bring her these extra-nutritious snacks. She hadn't know of any particular reason why Willow would need to 'keep her strength up' when she had packed them to come here. Had she?_

*****

In the same row as Buffy and Giles, just on the other side of Peter and Elaine Travers, stood Phillip Robson, looking polite and dignified. Robson's wife, Lilith, was at his side, looking pained and strained as always. Their sons and daughters were seated further back, among the mass of Watcher Folk. Milton Crowne and Laura Sterling (together) rounded out the row. Laura's daughter, Penny Hunt, stood directly behind her, sharing a row with Evan and Jacob Crowne, as if it had just happened to work out that way. There was a whole subcaste of speculators devoted to discussing the issue of whether or not Jacob had squeezed Penny's hand in a way that seemed slightly more than friendly and co-miserable at Jane Crowne's funeral yesterday and what it might mean that they were standing near each other yet again. Across the isle from Milton (seated directly behind yet more of Micheal Dunstan's innumerable descendants, siblings, nieces, nephews and in-laws) Adam Davison and his wife shared a bench with the sons, daughters-in-law and ex-wife of the late Virgil Gaudencio, who was to be the first of many buried tomorrow. All of the most important funerals were being held earliest each day so that the greatest dignitaries could attend them and then get back to work. All the rest of the Ezarians sat in a little clump behind Davidson.

Though there were a large number of Hippolytons seated in the next several rows on both sides, their leader, Julian Wyndam-Pryce, was conspicuous by his absence. It was understood; however, that this was not a slight to the Flavians but a necessary distancing from the entire Council for the sake of outside appearances. Julian's son, Wesley, was among a select few still being held by the police pending the filing of formal charges for assaulting and battering a number of police officers. Though it went carefully unstated by official sources, he was still being investigated for any links to the 'hostage takers' that hundreds of witnesses steadfastly swore had attacked the gathering and fled before police arrived. It didn't help at all that said witnesses couldn't agree upon whether their attackers had been Arab Muslims, Irish Republicans, Chinese Gang Members, Maldivian Communists or shape shifting aliens from outer-space.

That was certainly more than scandal enough without creating opportunities for the Deputy Minister himself to be seen and photographed with others who were present at that mysterious and ugly event. That most especially included Buffy Summers-Giles, who was still facing charges and further investigation herself and was free (if you could call being let out of a cage on the condition that you surrender your passport and agree not to leave an island half the size of California 'free') only because the Council had dropped a metric crap-ton of cash to make it so. Although it would have happened anyway, it was a relief that she had been let go so soon. Because apparently, there might have been a whole new kind of trouble if she wasn't. Buffy had been shocked to hear through Morrison how quickly her family had united and rallied to the cause of her freedom.

Apparently, no one, not even Aunt Darlene, had suggested that Buffy probably was responsible for any massacres that had happened when she was around or that behind bars might be where she really belonged. No one had thrown up their hands and said 'what can we do?' even. By the time the dust had settled on Saturday, Grampa Wallace, with the support of both her mother and her father, had apparently called Julian Wyndam-Pryce himself threatening a full-scale Summers invasion of Britain (sure to include both legal action and extensive press coverage) if she were not released at once. The old man had apparently pulled out all the stops, even suggesting that he knew more than anyone wanted to read in the newspaper about why the Deputy Minister was just the man to see to Buffy's release. Even now, with her release secured, both Joyce and Hank were making plans to fly to London (together even) before the end of the week, just to 'make sure she was alright.' Buffy didn't know quite what to make of all that, but with everything that was so wrong in this dark, cold, scheming, whispering, universe that was her husband's family, Buffy decided to count it as one thing going right.

As for the Watcher Clan, at least their actual, literal whispering died down a little when the chief mourners were seated and the ritual finally began. Oliver Dunstan, Micheal’s oldest son, seemed genuinely distraught if no one else did. In fact, he seemed lost, broken. Emma, his wife, was at his side, leading him by the hand, looking tired but strong. Dignified. Stoic. Like Andrew. Whom Buffy tried not to think of as her brother, or her anything else. To have looked at the pair of them, husband and wife, no one would have guessed which of them had just left the hospital against medical advice with deep, life-threatening wounds that were merely covered, not healed.

Of course, even Emma and Oliver had more to mourn than just the violent passing of Michael Dunstan. They had also lost their only son. Graham. His body remained unburied, one of a backlog waiting to be autopsied. Buffy ran the fingers of her left hand half-consciously along the knuckles of her right. The very slightly tender not-quite-bruises where her fist had made contact with Graham's face were gone now. But she knew exactly were they had been. Maybe an hour later he had died in battle at least metaphorically at her side, almost under her command. And yet now, her family and his, laced together as they were, remained as much enemies as anything. It was all so messed up. So exhausting. There were too many sides.

And that made her think of Cordelia. What could she be thinking, feeling? Should Buffy try to call her, to find out if she was okay? Probably not a good idea considering that there was no way that call was going to start with, 'to hell with Willow and Xander, I'm going to help you get through this,' which was all she would have wanted to hear in Cordelia's place. Still, it seemed wrong to say nothing, to act as if it were all okay. There was more to it than the fact of a heart getting broken, though Buffy knew from experience that that was enough. As much as she hated to admit it, Buffy sympathized with what it must be like to have fallen from the heights that Cordelia had, to have made that sacrifice for love, only to be dumped for a Willow Rosenberg. In Cordelia's cosmology, which Buffy had pretty much shared until a year or so ago, Willow was a 4-F, a noncombatant. It was like Juliet getting as far as Mantua only to be told that Romeo liked her nurse better and to run along home and see if Paris was still available. Cordelia wasn't going to take that lying down. Something was going to happen.

Which pretty much summed up the overall uneasy feeling that Buffy had being stuck in a room full of these Council people knowing everything that she now knew about them and realizing just how much there logically had to be that she still didn't know. This kind of a cauldron of betrayal and lies and emotions and pride couldn't just be. It wouldn't just sit there and be okay, because it wasn't okay. It was cancerous. It was festering. Something was going to happen.

*****

For the fourth night in a row, Xander closed the store at midnight exactly and drove straight to Willow’s house. _Angel's forehead exploded._ For the third night in a row, he parked in her driveway and came in through the front door, cross in hand, rather than availing himself of the relative safety of the garage. _Angel's forehead exploded._ He just wasn’t up to going in there. Not yet. 

In his mind, Xander went through a checklist of everything he needed to do. _Angel's forehead exploded._ He didn't have to get the mail or the newspaper. That happened in the mornings. Because he was keeping the store open eighteen hours a day with no help, his two daily trips to Willow's were only six hours apart, but going eighteen hours between two pairs of visits still seemed like a better plan than leaving the rats alone for twenty-four hours at a time. This trip he needed to feed Amy, refill her water bottle, clean both cages and put in new bedding. Then he could check his email. _Angel's forehead exploded._ He would check his email, see that there was still no reply from Cordelia, and go home and sleep for five hours. This time he was probably tired enough to do it.

The door was unlocked. _Angel's forehead exploded._ Xander had not left the door unlocked. He never left the door unlocked. Willow had trusted him with the key. In that much, at least, he had kept her trust. He stood perfectly still, barely able to see or hear, let alone think, his heart was beating so fast. Blood pounded in his ears. _Angel’s forehead exploded._ There was a sound of furtive movement in the kitchen. A light shown under the door. With a noise that was both a grunt of challenge and a scream terror, Xander burst into the kitchen, cross held high.  It was Angel! ...for the very tiny fraction of a second that it took his brain to understand the fact that he had a strange woman in her late thirties cornered, remarkably calmly, between his cross and the side of the refrigerator. 

“Blesséd be,” the woman greeted him just a little nervously. The strange greeting sounded as natural on her lips as ‘good morning.’ Because she was as used to saying it. Because she was a witch.

“Ms. Waddle?” The woman smiled and nodded.

“You must be Xander,” she seemed to explain. It was his turn to nod. _Angel's forehead exploded._

Xander's relief gave way to sheepishness. “I didn’t realize you had a key,” he apologized.

“I just… she asked me to look in on the house tonight, make sure everything was still okay,” she explained.

“Oh, right,” said the boy, realizing his thoughtlessness. “Sunday. Visiting day.” Willow must have explained to him that the first day of the week was reserved for 'parents' to see their 'children' at JDC and that Ms. Waddle, in the guise of Sheila Rosenberg, would be taking full advantage of that opportunity to give Willow a lifeline to the outside world. “How is she?” he asked, with heartbreaking concern. But Ms. Waddle's heart didn't break that easily. The last thing Willow needed was this boy getting any more involved in her affairs or even staying as involved as he was. 

“She’s… holding up,” Ms. Waddle assured him, choosing her words for believability. “I’m sure it’s not that she doubts you’re looking after things here…” she added after a pause, though he had expressed no such concern. “I’m sure she just…” Ms. Waddle let her words trail off, choosing her guilty, placating tone for lack of believability. 

Xander’s shoulders slumped just a little. He gawked at her awkwardly, embarrassed. “Excuse me,” he said. “I have to go feed—”

“Oh don’t worry,” Ms. Waddle cut him off, smiling benignly. “I took care of it. I took care of everything.”

*****

_The night was black. The wind screamed. The vault of heaven had been ripped open. The flood gushed forth upon the Earth like the wrath of an anguished god. Like Demeter weeping for her missing daughter. Willow stood beneath the dark , churning sky, arms up-stretched, screaming in anguish. Lightning blasted all around, but it didn’t dare to strike Her. The strobing flashes of electricity distorted Her emaciated features, giving Her the appearance of a gnarled old woman, or possibly an ancient tree. ..._

“Heads up Rosenberg!” a guard shouted, waking Willow from a long, restless night’s sleep filled with vague, half remembered dreams. Dreams of dread. Dreams of pain. Dreams from which she awoke with an overwhelming sense of guilt and despair. “Finally got you a roommate,” he half explained. Willow sat up and looked around. How long had she been asleep? There was probably more than one answer to that, she realized, but however you counted, it was still dark, not yet Monday morning. It seemed like an odd time to be bringing in a new prisoner. This wasn't the place they usually brought you in the middle of the night until they could do something about you in the morning.

“Hey, Willow,” the girl said with gloomy indifference. It was Sheila Zucker. Willow was shocked. Then she was terrified. She forced herself to try to remain calm. A vampire. She was about to be locked in a six by eight foot cell with a vampire. One who was bound to be in a hurry to feed and run. She had to escape before sunrise, after all. There was a window in the cell, too small to climb out of, but plenty big enough to fill the cramped space with sunlight.

“Sick!” Willow shouted with sudden inspiration. If she was sick they would have to put her somewhere else. Somewhere for people who were sick! “I… I’m sick!” The guard looked startled, then annoyed. Sheila gave her a wary, close-mouthed smirk. It was a look that said, ‘I know you, I’ve known you all your life, I see what you’re doing, I see why you’re doing it, I admire you for trying to lie; but you know you’re just not any good at it.’

The guard sighed. “You’re sick, huh?” Willow nodded vigorously. “What’s the matter with you?” he asked impatiently. She began speaking rapidly at an ever increasing pitch and volume, describing a variety of symptoms, which she was dimly aware didn’t really connect with each other, but she could barely hear the steady stream of confused, panicked verbiage that issued from her lips, let alone control it. What if it didn’t work?! What if she couldn’t convince him?! What if it didn’t matter what she said at all because Sheila being here wasn’t a coincidence but a plot by the Mayor and his minions to kill her and rid Sunnydale of the descendants of Johanna Levine once and for all!?!

“Fine,” the guard grumbled, pulling her out of the cell by the arm and locking Sheila in. “Come on and see the nurse.”

“Well I can tell you what you don’t have,” the nurse said snidely, after half an hour of questioning and prodding. “You don’t have a fever, chills, sneezing, vomiting, diarrhea, constipation, a _convincing_ cough, ear, nose, throat, or sinus infection, strep throat, mumps, measles or anything involving swelling or spots. You also don’t have a chance in hell of switching roommates. This is the JDC, not a college dorm. Now I’m going to send you back to get some sleep. Breakfast is in four hours.”

“No, please!” Willow begged. “You can’t send me back, I’ll die!”

“You’re not sick,” the nurse repeated, “Guard!”

“No, you don’t understand,” Willow tried again, “It’s Sheila, she’s a… she’s um… crazy! She’ll kill me! Please! You have to move her! I’ll be dead by sunrise!” The nurse and the guard looked at each other. Either she was truly desperate or she had suddenly become a much better liar. The nurse shrugged and the guard sighed. Pain in the ass though she was, the last thing they needed was for a bright, upper-middle-class kid with straight white teeth to be found dead in her cell on a damned misdemeanor detention. And they had both known the joy of dealing with Sheila Zucker.

But there had to be a reason, for the paperwork. Nobody had _done_ anything to warrant a disciplinary and there wasn’t a form for roommate requests. This was the JDC, not a collage dorm. “We could put her in the suicide watch cell,” the nurse suggested, “for what's left of tonight anyway.”

“I did hear her say she’d be dead by morning,” the guard agreed hopefully. They both looked at Willow.

“Yeah,” she mumbled, averting her eyes, acutely uncomfortable in the knowledge that she was about to have ‘a documented history of suicidal ideation.’ “I did say that.” Having a ‘mental health history’ could be a serious problem on college applications, but it was better than being dead.

*****

This was the hard part. It was like the receiving line at a wedding. Except instead of having to kiss the bride and make happy talk, hands or shoulders had to be squeezed while everyone thought of something appropriately sad and vaguely comforting to say. Buffy settled for looking grave and sympathetic. At least she was going for grave and sympathetic. The way everyone kept asking if she was sure she was alright and if she needed anything, she probably just looked queasy. But however it looked, the look was the best she could do. She had nothing to say to these people.

The Eulogy had been a long one (seemingly meant to give the impression that everyone honestly thought the dead man had been the second coming of sliced bread) and now everyone, especially the Dunstans, seemed tired out by the long-winded pretense. Buffy shuffled along the line of family just behind Andrew, with Giles leaning on her for support. At least having a hobbling husband attached to her hip seemed to make people not want to keep her long, and the way they were positioned gave the Dunstan clan a clearly welcome excuse not to speak to Giles himself.

The hardest part, really, was having to witness Andrew's stiff, formal interactions with everyone. Especially when the stiffness and the formality didn't seem to come so easily. Andrew had been moving long the line at a brisk pace, until he got to Emma. Then he stopped. His gaze shifted away from her face and back again. He looked as if he wanted to say something important but couldn't decide what. She looked him firmly in the eye. Someone with an active imagination could have seen a challenge in that look. At last, he returned her gaze just as firmly. “Mr. Giles,” she said with a stiff curt nod, in a way that could have been taken as either polite or quietly angry, either respectful or dismissive.

“Mrs. Dunstan,” he replied in exactly the same tone, nodding just as stiffly. With another nod and an equally terse exchange of greetings to Oliver, Andrew reached the head of the line at last. He cast no more than a quick, obligatory glance at the shell of the man who'd caused him such misery before moving briskly forward, out of everyone's way. Buffy and Giles followed, nearly matching his pace. Buffy noticed a slightly relieved uptick in conversation as they moved away. Peter did not keep pace. He and Emma seemed to be sharing a moment of comparatively warm and genuine commiseration. Buffy didn't catch her Watcher's quiet words of concern, only Mrs. Dustan's unconvincingly cavalier response, “...Well, perhaps I'm merely tired of London.”

Andrew was waiting for Buffy and Giles outside the church. They tried to walk past him without speaking, but it didn't work. “Rupert,” he insisted, stepping into their path, “I'd like a word.”

Buffy opened her mouth to object, but Giles waved her to silence. “What is there to say?” he asked stiffly.

“I... don't like the thought of your staying in a hotel in your condition,” Andrew said, sounding like he was compromising between what he wanted to say and what he hoped he could get away with. Buffy stared. Did he actually think they would sleep under his roof, that that would be a good idea?

“I do have some experience at it,” Giles pointed out, though what he meant by that, Buffy wasn't exactly sure until he added, with a slight squeeze to her arm, “and if somehow we should fail to manage, we have an excellent second line of defense. She's already killed very nearly every vampire in London anyway.”

“It isn't... just that,” Andrew finally admitted, sounding a bit frustrated, looking a bit less stoic. “It's just... Rupert, please... can't we... discuss things somewhere less...” he cast an eye about the crowd exiting this church and let the sentence die.

“'Discuss things',” Giles repeated, his voice slightly bitter, almost mocking, “Humph,” he snorted, followed by a short chuckle, shaking his head. Buffy gripped his arm a little tighter in a way she hoped was supportive. She shot a dark, warning glance at Andrew, who looked more defensive than chastened in return. His eyes were still half begging, half insisting that he ought to be given a chance to be heard. Could he honestly not see that Giles was on the verge of collapse? Could he not see what it was costing him just to stand next to his father and say nothing about the pain he was still in, had been in for over forty years? Did he honestly think they were about to kiss and make up, that he would be told all was forgiven? 'Gee, Son, I'm sorry I killed your mom and buried her in the back yard like a stray cat.' 'Gosh, Dad, don't worry about it. Everybody makes mistakes.' Did he think he had a right to ask that? Already? Could a human being be that selfish?

“Look,” Buffy said, when it seemed to be taking Giles so long to find his tongue that she was afraid Andrew might speak again, “Send it in a letter. We're done here.”

Andrew opened his mouth to respond, but it snapped shut pretty quickly when Giles looked up at him at last, steady if not calm and affirmed. “Yes. We are. We're done.” Then he smiled in a way that Buffy didn't like at all and added, his tone chillingly polite, even pleasant, “I shall look forward to seeing you at the meeting this evening, Mr. Giles.” Andrew's eyes widened just a little before he nodded stiffly and turned away. And that was that.

*****

At two a.m., Xander suddenly realized that he was awake.  _ Angel's forehead exploded. _ In his bed in his parent's basement, not standing behind the counter at the Quick Mart.  _ Angel's forehead exploded.  _ Xander's heart was pounding.  _ Angel's forehead exploded. _ He was sick with the realization that, whatever Willow or Ms. Waddle thought, there was something at Willow's house that he  _ did _ have to deal with, that no one else could possibly 'have covered'.  _ Angel's forehead exploded.  _ He had to get rid of the body.

All things being equal, the dead of night seemed like the right time to be moving bodies around, actually. At least it was traditional. Not that that made a  _safe_ thing to do in Sunnydale. Not that it was actually ever a safe thing to do in daylight anywhere. It didn't matter. It could have been noon.  _Angel's forehead exploded._ Panic had set in. Evidence that could get him life in prison, or death for that matter, was locked in a garage to which someone else, someone he barely knew and certainly didn't trust, had at least as good of access as he did. There was no way he would be able to rest, let alone sleep, until he did something about it.

 


	2. All in the Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Willow and Xander separately struggle in the grip supernatural evils and the not-unrelated Del Bacco County juvenile justice system, Cordelia makes plans to capitalize on her new-found relative freedom. Meanwhile, the Council faces change with it's usual degree of open-mindedness and humanity.

The Inner Council met first, at ten a.m. There may have been a few subcommittee meetings going on at the same time, but they were unimportant. The funerals that were still going on were the unimportant ones as well. Relatively speaking. Not the ones it was important to be seen at anyhow. Seven people sat in seven chairs around an octagonal table, the eighth chair (empty at the moment) reserved for one to entreat or to be interrogated by the Seven. 

This was the Inner Chamber, situated within the archives rather than among the offices and meeting rooms that surrounded the Council Chamber. This was the place of the secret and the sacred meetings. Julian sat in his rightful place, as did Milton, Robson, and Davidson. The other three were there to be confirmed. All in a batch. It was an extraordinary procedure, but these were extraordinary times.

Twenty-two Watchers had been lost in Friday's fighting, counting the three equals, but only two Potentials had died. The Inner Council needed to be brought back to full strength immediately, to provide stability and get on about the business of reassigning personnel and minting new Watchers. 

For the Flavian House, there was Oliver Dunstan. No surprise. No controversy. He was shaking, but that was unrelated. He was sedated, but not sedated enough. His wife would give him more nice drugs and put him to bed right after the meeting. She had made him a sheaf of notes so that he wouldn't forget what to say or how to vote. 

Virgil Gaudencio had a son as well. Heathcliff. He was fifty-three, a well respected Watcher, involved in the importation of Oriental Antiques, which business afforded him many contacts very valuable to the Council. He had even been Primary once. To Constance Gesh, in the last year of her life. The only disquiet in his House had been whether he would accept election, given his attachment to his current charge and his concern that her father would not easily allow a substitution and was not the sort of man you could safely defy by absconding with his daughter, however willingly she might go. 

However, a 'solution' had been found to that dilemma that had left everyone in the Inner Council scratching their heads about what was to happen in the latter part of the afternoon. Now he was sitting here, tacitly challenging them to approve his solution or not and to see how the House, with no one clear alternative heir, might respond. 

But it was the third Elect who had everyone's attention. It shouldn't have been a surprise, really. Quentin Travers had only one, fairly young, son. A fairly young son who had only recently begun serving as Primary to a Slayer who was close enough to the edge of rebellion without the Council trying to foist yet another new Watcher on her.

The problem, of course, was that Quentin Travers had no brothers. He had sisters, certainly, two still living, both of whom were Watchers. And the Travers House was known to support the seating of females, in theory at least. Of course, most everyone did nowadays. In theory at least. But with Laura already waiting in the wings to be seated in the next decade or two, to have nominated yet another woman to the Inner Council... 

Well, she would have to have been a person of particular, unassailable dignity and gravitas. And of the two, the one most closely fitting that description, Emma Dunstan, would have been taking a Seat alongside her own husband, which smacked of unequal representation of one House or the other. And while there was nothing definitely unsuitable about Kay, the youngest of 'St. Peter's' daughters, she was, like her sister, a matron in her seventies with all of her obvious heirs Enrolled into her husband's House rather than her own. 

And unlike her sister, she was so soft-spoken and accommodating that one could actually conceive the fear that she might be ruled by her sons. Each of Quentin's nephews was unsuitable in some way, once you sat down and got to thinking about them one by one. If they were Watchers, they were not Jacobean Watchers, or if they were, they were no older than his own son, or they were known to be much too heavy drinkers, or beset by some such other frailty. 

There was simply nothing for it but to trace the Line further back, to search for an heir among the collateral relatives of Peter Travers, the additional descendants of his ancestors. Which of course, led to the opposite problem, too many claimants rather than too few. Men and women of varying qualities and more or less equal dignities each with his or her own faction to support (or to be suspected of supporting, or accused of betraying) relative to the interests of the House as a whole.

And suddenly then, it had become a matter of selecting not the best connected, but the most isolated. Someone known to be wise, intelligent, hardworking, both respectable and respected, experienced in the field, and yet so out of the loop when it came to the internal politics of the House as to be considered, by default, above the fray. 

And so it was that Samuel Zabuto (who was, like Quentin himself, both the son and the grandson of a Watcher and the six-times great grandson of Sr. John Travers, holder of the Travers Seat from 1791 to 1827) found himself sitting across that ancient table from six deeply middle aged to slightly elderly white men who looked as though they had never before in all their lives seen anything so strange as a West Indian.

*****

Xander didn't go up the stairs. His mom slept like a cat on Ritalin.  _Angel's forehead exploded._ She'd padlocked the outside basement door, getting into her role as enforcer of court orders, but that didn't matter. He climbed on top of the washing machine and out the basement window.  _Angel's forehead exploded._ Sheila's Lexis was parked on the street.  _Angel's forehead exploded._ He wouldn't have dared to suggest that it needed the protection of a garage more than his parent's '89 Ford. The Lexis at least had insurance.  _Angel's forehead exploded._ Xander put the car in gear and drove to Willow's house.

The door was locked, this time, as it should be. That was okay. He had a key. She had trusted him with it. Had? Past tense?  _Angel's forehead exploded._ It didn't matter. The key was in his hand. Of course, he also had a garage opener.  _Angel's forehead exploded._ Technically, the garage was where he needed to go. He didn't have any real reason to go into the house.  _Angel's forehead exploded._ Except to avoid going into the garage. Which really seemed to negate the point of being here. The point of being here was— _Angel's forehead exploded._ He went into the house. Fine, whatever, just... not yet. 

Even before he flipped the lights on, Xander knew something was wrong. So wrong that it put him in an even bigger hurry to get the lights on. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he realized that the sense of wrongness connected directly to a very unpleasant smell, which was coming from the kitchen, and as he instantly knew without having to look, from the garage beyond.  _Angel's forehead exploded. Maggots wriggled in his putrid flesh._ The whole downstairs of Willow's house was tainted with the smell of a decomposing body. 

Xander closed the door behind him over the protests of most of the committee that made up his better judgment, brutally repressing the faction that was calling for a quorum on a motion to run like hell. He pulled a cross from beneath his shirt and held it before him as he slowly made his way through the kitchen.  _Angel leapt from the shadows in full vampface and went straight for his throat._ The kitchen was empty, but the door to the garage had been opened, and not gently. It hung crookedly from its bent hinges.

The smell was fifty times stronger and more distinctly disgusting in the kitchen than it had been in the living room. It was vomit worthy. Xander blocked it out as best he could. The mind numbing terror actually helped quite a bit with that. It was hard to experience anything else. He got close to the broken door, but not too close. Just close enough to look in. Even from here, he could see with his own eyes what his nose was already telling him. The trunk of the White Lexis was wide open. He could not see from here that it was empty, but he knew. The door had been forced from _inside_ the garage.

Oh God, now what? His first instinct when things like this happened, even after more than a year of knowing better, was still to call 911. Xander was startled by his own nervous laughter.  _ Hello police, I want to report a missing dead body.  _ Even if he hadn't known better, he would know better. Which pretty much looped right back to 'now what?'. 'Why?' And 'How?' Were also screaming and banging on the windows of his train of thought, trying to climb on board, but the train was already leaving the station, rolling through a dense fog of blinding panic at the bottom of a canyon of dread. 

If it had come in the house, then it wasn't a vampire. And why should it be? He had shot a human being in the head. _Angel's forehead exploded._ That didn't lead to vampires. 

God only knew what he was actually up against, Xander realized. Or if the cross would protect him. He felt vulnerable. Helpless. And so, he thought of Sheila. Xander hurried up the stairs, but the door to Sheila's room was locked, as it should be. In fact, nothing upstairs seemed the least bit out of place. In Sheila and Ira's old room, the rats were squeaking peacefully. Willow's bed was exactly as unmade as they had left it, covers mostly in place but turned down at a sloppy angle. Sheets not washed. There was one towel lying on the bathroom floor, right where it had been. 

Calming a little, Xander carefully made his way back down the stairs, his heavy wooden cross held high and ready. Things downstairs had maybe been _straightened_ a little, but that was probably the work of Ms. Waddle. Ang—whatever it was—had not gotten into the house. _Angel's forehead exploded._ It had tried. _Angel's forehead exploded._ It had succeeded in breaking the door open, ( _Angel's forehead exploded_ )but not in walking through it. Definitely vampire. But why? _Angel's forehead exploded._ How? _Angel's forehead exploded._ And more importantly what now? Even more more importantly than that, _where_ _was it at_ now? 

_ Angel's!!! Forehead !!! Exploded!!! Murderer!!! Murderer!!! This doesn't make sense! He's dead!!! _

Xander didn't have to wonder long. The sound of feral growling snapped his head in the direction of the broken open door. Standing almost but not quite in the doorway was the deadest thing Xander had ever seen standing on it's own two feet. There was very little blood around the wound anymore, though there was some dried on the face. Shattered bone and softer, meatier substances in contrasting shades of gray and pink crumbled loose from the foreshortened (see above re exploding) forehead. The light in the demon's eyes was hungry, vicious; but with none of Angel's eager, active intelligence. Those eyes! They were frightening in more ways and for more reason than Xander could (or wanted to) sort out. They identified him as an enemy, but there was no spark of recognition. 

Angel snarled and threw himself against the empty space where the door used to be. Xander involuntarily backed up, crying out in terror, but he checked the impulse to run. Fleeing this house was the most dangerous thing he could possibly do. Angel's rough and ready lobotomy might have kept him from understanding why he couldn't get into Willow's kitchen, but it wouldn't stop him from crashing through the garage door and dragging Xander down on the front lawn. Apparently, it also didn't stop him grabbing everything he could get his hands on and hurtling it through the opening. With another short, sharp scream, Xander dodged a flying tool box full of suddenly separately flying tools and made a break for the stairs. He ran into the rat room and slammed the door. Now what?

Now there was a sound of a car running and wheels on an asphalt driveway, that was what. He parted the curtains of the bedroom window only slightly, but enough to see an ancient mammoth of a Buick pulling into the driveway. It had to be Ms. Waddle. Coming back to take or leave or finish something. Who else would come here at this time of depends on your definition of morning or night? Gears whirred and metal clunked as the garage door rattled up. Damn. Xander ran downstairs, cross held high.

Screaming. High, panicked, pitiful screaming. Xander leapt from the kitchen into the garage, fully expecting to find Angel standing over Ms. Waddle's crumpled body. Only it was the other way round. She was standing, or leaning more like, weak kneed, clinging to her own front fender, gazing in horror at the very human looking corpse that was folded in on itself inside the open trunk of Ira Rosenberg's car. Just as he had left it. _Angel's forehead exploded._

“Oh, I...” Xander stammered, but the look in her eyes stopped his tongue. It was a look of indignation, of terror and yet somehow also of contempt. It was the look of an innocent, law abiding citizen appalled to be addressed by a murderer. Xander's panic, was too panicked to do anything about being panicked. Too panicked even to run. Run! Gee, that was a good idea actually. Xander made a firm decision to run. But somehow, his feet didn't get the memo. He remained rooted to the spot, his eyes and those of the witch locked.

“Leave this town!” she said, her voice much harder, much harsher than he would have thought possible from the way she'd sounded when he'd talked to her before. “Leave tonight and never come back. Don't try to contact Willow. If you are gone by morning, I will speak of this to no one!”

Xander nodded, panic grabbing at relief that turned to dread at once. Leave town, yes that sounded good, but leave Willow, leave _Cordelia_ , not so much. Come back for them! Yes, let things cool off, nothing said for long enough, come back for just a little while and... what? Come back for who and do what with them? Don't. Don't think about that now. No time. Time to panic. Remember panic? Dead body. Eye witness. One chance. Get out of town.

At last Xander's feet obeyed him. At last he turned to run. He ran to the door of Sheila's Lexis and opened it. His keys were not in his hand, not in his pocket, not in the car. In the house? No, still hanging from the door knob, where he had left them without a thought the minute that something had felt wrong. Sighing, feeling a ridiculous mundanity set in, stealing the momentum of his dramatic escape, Xander lumbered back towards the house. “It's alright,” he called to Ms. Waddle, as he walked back past the garage where she was surely watching him, “Just need to get my keys.” He'd hate for her to get the wrong idea and call 911 after all. It was surprisingly generous of her not to do that anyway. Very Surprisingly.

With his hand on the knob, pulling the keys out, Xander stopped, and for the first time in half an hour, had a truly clear thought. There was only one possible real reason for her not to call 911, and that was Sheila Rosenberg. How did that change if he left town or not? More importantly, even if she didn't call them, then what? It wasn't like the body would just go away. What was she going to do, bury it herself? That seemed like a lot to do for someone you didn't even like. Unless her whole goal was to keep him away from Willow. Thinking back, maybe it had been that, all along.

Ready for a confrontation, tired of being lied to, damn well more than ready to do his own grave digging if that was what it took for the choice of his next move to be his own, Xander walked into the garage. Ms. Waddle was on her hands and knees with a plastic box and a tiny hand broom, collecting a pile of dust. The trunk of Ira's car was still open. The body was gone. 

“Hey!” Xander demanded, “What the hell is going on!”

*****

Robson, of course, didn't have a problem with it. It was the twentieth century after all, and at that, only just. He was merely... concerned about what difficulties could result if someone else had a problem with it. He sneaked a look at Milton, hoping to find guidance or support or something. But the look on Milton's face was hard to read.

Milton, of course, didn't have a problem with it. The Inner Council already held one Jew and one queer with a married woman heir waiting in the wings to inherit his Seat. And apparently, at least until recently, quite a few Seats had been held by outright, indisputable murderers. Why not a West Indian, really? Besides, there was something about the way in which so very many of his Brother Equals (and would be equals) seemed so uncomfortable with their own discomfort that Milton found decidedly amusing. 

Julian Wyndam-Pryce was not uncomfortable with his discomfort. He was just plain uncomfortable. Not that there was anything exactly wrong with being West Indian, in theory at least. In theory, one Watcher, one decedent of a Line, was as good as any other and it was up to the Watchers of each House to choose any one of their number to lead and represent them. And, to be sure, there was nothing to disqualify a bright West Indian from any of the duties he was likely to be called upon to perform in the field, no reason why the children of such intermarriages should not be Enrolled (as in fact they had been for many generations) so long as they were able to succeed in training. But this was the Inner Council. The body that defined and maintained the traditional, stable character of the entire insinuation of the Watchers Council of Britain. It was already beset enough by the innovationism, the worship of novelty that defined the twentieth century, without making the whole thing look like an advertisement for some kind of American style affirmative action scheme. Now, especially now, they needed stability, certainty, not innovation. They needed to project an image of timeless, unquestionable authority; not that of a 'Brave New Council' under which any imaginable sort of change seemed possible. 

Oliver Dunstan was more than uncomfortable. He was horrified. The universe seemed to be flying apart at the seems. His father had been murdered by an Equal of the Inner Council, death by pushing and shoving on an icy sidewalk. His murder could not be acknowledged, but must be denied for the sake of calm and order at this delicate time. In other words, it was to be unavenged and forgotten like the inevitable death of some unimportant person. His son was dead, killed by vampires, a reality that made all of these meetings and shuffling about of documents seem suddenly absurd. His grandson, and now apparent heir, wore an earring, and Oliver could never remember which ear he wore it in or which ear was the wrong one. Clara Font was privately insisting to him that his own wife had all but confessed to committing incest and infanticide and God knew what else with Andrew Giles who was suddenly known to be her father's son, not that he dared question her about any of these assertions. And now here he was about to be _Seated_ alongside this large, wooly-haired Negro dressed up in ridiculously perfect imitation of an English gentleman, which was utterly at odds with his West Indian dialect, barely resembling the Queens English. Oliver hardly knew whether to count himself fortunate or unfortunate that he was not being asked to cast a vote on the subject.

Adam Davidson was neither uncomfortable nor amused. He was impatient. Both with his 'Brothers'' moronic racialism and prudishness regarding the Travers and Gaudencio elections and with the wasting of time in general. He was watching Mr. Zabuto; however, in a way that probably didn't look much different from the others, taking careful note of his reaction to the situation, which seemed businesslike, utterly patient, and altogether acceptable. 

Sam Zabuto was neither particularly uncomfortable nor impatient, though he was certainly not the least bit amused either. He was ready to get on with things, certainly, but he could give these men their moment to deal with their discomfort. It was certainly nothing he wasn't used to. And certainly nothing that was going to stand in his way. His House had selected him. They had had good reasons for doing so. Reasons which all of these men, whatever their personal misgivings, could surely understand. To have rejected him would have been too great an insult to the entire House, an affront which they could not afford in these already unsettled times. He would be Seated, both an honor and a sacrifice. He would live out his remaining years and die in this cold country among these cold men, as his destiny required. Now that she was gone, it seemed an oddly fitting end.

Heathcliff Gaudencio was uncomfortable with his discomfort. So much so that he said, though it was hardly in order for him to say so, “Well, why doesn't someone go ahead and move to accept Sam and Oliver, since their claims are straightforward enough, and then we can discuss my situation further if we need to.” 

“An excellent suggestion,” Mr. Zabuto agreed in a bland, pleasant tone in which those who wished to were sure to detect a hint of irony. Davidson found it interesting to note that the group as a whole was so discomfited that not even the usual suspects had the presence of mind or the will to object that it was not a mere Elect's place to make such a suggestion. Interesting to note, but not prudent to give the body time to contemplate. Davidson quickly moved to accept the two uncomplicated nominations and Milton, laughing, seconded. Robson's hand was up almost before the vote was called. There was only a slight pause before Julian followed suit. And so Sam Zabuto and Oliver Dunstan became, at one and the same moment, two Equals who would help to lead the Council into the twenty-first century. Now Gaudencio was the odd man out, facing six Equals to which he must explain himself and justify his scandalously unorthodox plans for the training and education of a certain Potential Slayer.

*****

_The night was black. The wind screamed. The vault of heaven had been ripped open. The flood gushed forth upon the Earth like the wrath of a jealous God raging at His wayward daughter. W_ _illow stood beneath the dark, churning sky, arms up-stretched, screaming in anguish. Lightning. Strobing flashes of electricity distorted Her emaciated features, giving Her the appearance of a gnarled old woman, or possibly an ancient tree. Her red hair flew around her, blazing like fire despite the wind and rain._

_Among the singed and smoking vegetation, vampires growled. No. Not vampires, vampire. A dozen, a score, a hundred, a thousand. Of Spike. “Really, Willow Dear,” they simpered and censured at the same time, “is_ this _what you want?” The forest rang with the softly cutting echoes of Sheila Rosenberg's voice._

“ _No!”Willow begged, weeping now; suddenly very small, very young, a little, little girl, chubby hands and chipmunk cheeks trembling, “Please, God, no!”_

Willow's waking was as sharp and sudden as a bolt of lightning, but her memory of what had driven her from sleep was hazy at best. It didn't matter. It was morning. She couldn't see the sun from where she was, but the number and faces of the staff members passing by the unspeakably open glass front of her 'observation cell' told her that the six a.m. shift change had already happened. In fact, everyone seemed to be pretty well settled into their working day. Willow felt a little twinge of panic at the idea that she might have already missed breakfast, but she tamped it down and focused on the positive. Sheila was gone! One way or the other. She had to be. And soon, with or without breakfast, Willow would be on her way to the computer lab. 

...Or so she thought until someone actually brought her a (late and light) breakfast tray. “Am I going to be released after breakfast?” she tried asking. But the guard only gave her a shrug and a non-committal noise before disappearing again. Willow tried to be patient, figuring it was just a matter of it not being the top priority of this probably understaffed institution to get one girl where she needed to go. They didn't care if she was late to class, Willow tried to tell herself, so why should she? It wasn't like the work was going to be too hard for her to catch up. 

But it's hard to be patient when you're hungry, and whatever was going on in Willow's still mostly empty stomach felt very unpleasant. There was gurgling. She wasn't used to gurgling. Even more than she wanted to get to the Computer Lab in time to hack the webmail block, email Xander, figure out what the Mayor was all about, and not get completely behind in her new classes the very first day; Willow wanted desperately to get to her cell for a few minutes and eat the rest of Ms. Waddle's crackers. 

Minutes became hours. Hunger gnawed. The place looked anything but understaffed. Willow felt so weak, so fuzzy-headed, that she was sure she was imagining these symptoms. They seemed too pronounced after such a short time without adequate food to be anything but the psychosomatic effects of insecurity. Finally, she resorted to calling out to everyone who came anywhere near her enclosure, making a general nuisance of herself until someone finally answered her simple question of “when am I going to get out of here?”... Sort of.

“Dr. Upton's no vacation until next Monday,” a sour-looking woman with a clipboard (for checking off the fact that Willow had not hung herself in the last fifteen minutes) explained impatiently, at last. “Someone will have to come out from the Sunnydale Mental Hospital to evaluate you before you can be taken off watch.”

“Do you know if they'll be here before lunch?” Willow asked, her voice rising worriedly. She had an uneasy feeling the lunch tray might be as light as the breakfast one was. 

The woman actually laughed. “Lunch? You'll be lucky if they get here by lights out, tomorrow,” she explained cheerfully, shaking her head. “They're a mess over there!”

“Wait!” Willow yelled desperately when the woman turned to go, “I can't stay in here like this! I'm starving to death!” 

“You get the same rations as everybody else,” said the woman indifferently. “And,” she added, in a slightly warning tone, “We are authorized to give you a sedative if you get uncooperative.”

“But—!” Willow started to whine in protest. Her mouth snapped shut. If there was one thing she didn't need, it was a sedative. In fact, she already felt that she needed to lie down. Immediately.

*****

Cordelia was in a confident, powerful mood as she dressed and adorned herself for school that Monday morning. Heck, she was downright cheerful. Even having to retouch her makeup after a little bout of unexpected morning sickness could not dent her happy, optimistic, take-charge, can-do attitude. After a whole weekend of being locked in the house with nothing but the TV (or her parents) for company, at last she was free to roll on her own four wheels to school, where she could talk to actual humans. Besides, there was the computer lab, which some coach or other would doubtless be keeping open, hopefully one without a clue who was supposed to be in there or when. Finally, she could email Xander! She laughed with quiet, superior joy. He'd probably sent her about a million messages over the weekend, even knowing that she would have no way at all to answer him until she got to school. Of course, there hadn't been any when she'd check on Friday, but then there wouldn't be until he got off work at whatever time of the evening, probably long after the infamous early closing time of Sunydale High.

And that was the other reason for Cordelia's good mood. Today she was looking forward to more than just the chance to touch base with her boyfriend or even the luxury of feeling like a free person again, at least during the day. Because yesterday she had learned, from eavesdropping on her parents phone calls in a way she hadn't had to do since she was twelve, that the school was going to announce the end of the supremely unpopular 'Out By Four' Policy. From now on, campus activities could continue until six-thirty p.m., which was not quite as late as some of them had used to go, but it was long enough. What was more, her father wasn't planning to stop her from attending evening practices and games. He was hoping, in fact, that resuming a more normal social life with the survivors of her old friends would keep her mind off of 'that boy' and his 'little harem of misfits.' Cordelia wouldn't have to be home until a reasonable time after her scheduled extra-curricular activities were over, maybe sevenish on days that they ran to the time limit. 

Therefore, starting today, Cordelia would be scheduling her cheerleaders, for four solid hours of practice every afternoon from now until the end of school. Every afternoon except the next two Tuesdays, which would be reserved for tryouts to increase their numbers and add an axillary 'training' squad, which seemed more than justified by the school's undeniably high mortality rate. What was more, on Saturdays, the cheerleaders would host a 'Fitness Club' where they would help other students to get in shape. And when she finished teaching them all of the moves Giles had suggested for her to study, when they were able to put all of the bits and pieces of all of her 'new routines' together... And when she had separated the girls (and guys) who had or could get a clue about what was going on in this town from the ones who would never see anything bigger than high school football... Cordelia Chase planned on leading a lot more than cheers. She would be leading an army. 

*****

At this particular funeral, Andrew Giles was standing in the very back of the church, several feet behind the last, mostly empty, row of pews. The central figure wasn't even a Watcher, only a second or third cousin of quite a lot of Watchers, so people could sit or stand wherever they liked. Phillip Robson came in late and stood next to him. There was no one else terribly nearby. “It's all sorted, or soon to be,” the elder Mr. Giles said coolly, without looking over, the way people do in gangster films and spy dramas. 

“Your friends in Los Angeles?” Mr. Robson asked. 

Andrew shuddered a little. Andrew _Giles_. “Associates,” he muttered grimly. “At any rate, they're sending two representatives to Arizona as we speak.” 

Robson sighed deeply. It couldn't be helped. “I do feel bad for old Claybrooke,” he murmured. The older man gave him a very disproving sidelong glance, as if to say that perhaps he was in the wrong line of work, which truthfully, Robson thought he probably was. “Well,” Robson admitted glumly, “he is the one who asked for a lawyer.”

*****

Xander didn't go to Willow's first thing Monday morning. As the morning got older, he rolled back over and still didn't go. Ms. Waddle had assured him he didn't have to. He was no longer needed there. She was taking care of everything. Willow had asked her to. Just to make sure it was being done by a responsible person. Someone she could trust not to fuck everything up. A grownup, in other words. Something which, in her mind, he still clearly was not. Whatever she had said. Whatever they had done. He was still just a guy to her, not a man. And that was without her even knowing about Cordelia. Let alone Angel. 

Angel... there was something there. Something Xander didn't feel like he was quite remembering. Something that bothered him even though he knew it should not have. Angel, the body, all of that was done and over with, taken care of. He had a deep sense of assurance that it was taken care of. By someone who was competent and reliable in every way that he was not. Besides, when Xander tried to think about the subject, his head hurt and his mind looped back to the realization that he wasn't needed at Willow's anymore.

Xander also didn't go to work. Mr. Garth didn't need him today either. When he saw what had 'accidentally' happened to the security camera, that would probably turn out to be a permanent thing. Which would make Xander one other thing every great boyfriend and father should be, besides a felon, a dropout and someone else's boyfriend. Unemployed. 

Finally, around noon, Xander's stomach drove him upstairs. As he had dreaded, his mother was up there waiting for him. She was sitting at the kitchen table holding a short stack of paperwork. But to his surprise, she didn't say anything about hearing him sneak out at two a.m. “Your probation officer came by last night,” Jessica said frostily instead. “We have a court date May 21st, to revoke your probation and send you to JDC. He wouldn’t say for how long.” 

“ _What_?” Xander was floored. “Just for being out one night after curfew?”

“It was four nights,” his mother reminded him. Of course, they had asked and she had told. Why would he have expected anything else? “And you skipped school and lied about it,” she kept on accusingly. “He also said if you break any more of their rules in the meantime, they’re going to pick you up and hold you until then, and don’t you dare expect me to cover for you!”

“Jesus, Ma, I told you I had to work!” Xander snapped. Without even knowing he was about to, he banged the table with his fist. Jessica jumped and let out a pitiful little yelp that made him feel every bit as guilty as if he had actually threatened to hit her. “Oh, God, Mom, I… I’m sorry,” he stammered. 

Jessica refused to meet his eyes. “You’re still driving that car,” she observed, lips pursed. 

Xander hung his head. “I’m checking on their house for them while they’re gone,” he mumbled. She didn’t need him to point out that there was no other way for him to get to school and her to still have a car to get to work. Neither one sounded like much of a justification for continuing to drive Sheila Rosenberg’s fifty-thousand dollar Lexis under the circumstances as he knew them to be and Willow still didn’t. Besides, he wasn't checking on the house anymore. He was sitting here not checking on it right now. Willow and her witch friends had it covered.

“Is there something going on between you and Sheila?” Jessica asked abruptly. 

“What? Something—” When he realized what she meant, Xander was honestly shocked. “Of course not! She’s just… helping me out because of Willow.” 

“Is _she_ going to pay for that high-priced lawyer to go to court with you again?” Jessica demanded harshly.

“I doubt it,” Xander admitted, not bothering to set her straight on who had paid the last time. “I’ll just have to… figure something out.”

Jessica pursed her lips again, by no means failing to notice the way her son was evading her eyes, but she didn’t press any further. She wasn’t really sure she wanted to know. They had all known Sheila (in so far as it was possible to _ know  _ Sheila) since the kids were only five years old. She didn't  _ seem _ like the kind of person who could ignore something like that, but... you never knew what you didn't know. Besides, Jessica had never felt like she was making a complete connection when she spoke with the woman. Sheila seemed politely indifferent to almost anything anyone had to say and then when she  _ did  _ say anything of substance it was always something from way out in left field and/or over everyone's head, not that Jessica was ever really sure which. How could you ever possibly know what to expect from someone like that? And there had to be some reason why she hadn't wanted any of them to come to Ira's funeral. 

“You're dad has a job interview at 2:30,” Jessica said, changing the subject, deciding maybe she didn't want to know. “Something Rory lined up out at the Plant. You'll have to drive him. I'll be at work.”

“I have to be at school by one,” Xander reminded her. “I can't miss again. If I don’t go, they're going to pick me up and hold me until May 21st, remember?” 

Jessica was quiet for another long moment. “I have to get to work,” she repeated at last. Xander shrugged and got up to pour himself a bowl of cereal. Jessica left, shaking her head. Xander sighed. What did she expect him to do exactly? He was in danger of being late as it was. He wolfed down the cereal, got his books together, called Rory and left a message for him to please drive Tony to his appointment. Xander knew it would never happen. Not in just two and a half hours from now. Both of the brothers Harris would probably still be in bed by then, each sleeping off his latest drunk. Yeah, sure, it happened even in the finest of families. But it happened a lot more in families like Xander's. Families that sucked. And hey, he though, raising his glass of orange drink-that-is-not-quite-juice, here's to keeping the tradition going for one more glorious generation(!)

 


	3. Faithfully

“Rupert Simon Giles! Son of Andrew Patrick Giles, of the House of Weregelder and of the Lineage of Radbert Weregelder!” a voice thundered from the dais above. It was Robson's voice, but nevertheless, it thundered. Some trick of the room's acoustics, Buffy guessed, though there had to be some tone work as well. He hadn't exactly thundered at her the other night, though some of them had. Especially two of the three that were now dead. Dead and replaced. How 'efficient' of them, Buffy thought, as the voice finished thundering. “You will come forward and receive the judgment of the Disciplinary Committee!”

As far as Buffy could tell, 'Disciplinary Committee' referred more to an event than a distinct group of people. It was the Seven Equals who seemed to have done the judging, or maybe just the four who had been around to be in on the deal making that had gone on over the weekend. At least assuming the judgment was as expected. Both Morrison and Robson had told them what to expect, but Buffy held her breath anyway. She wasn't feeling too inclined to trust even the survivors of this bunch right now. Giles squeezed her hand and released it with a look that was probably meant to be a lot more reassuring and less worried. He took a deep, quiet breath and stepped carefully forward, leaning on his crutches. The moment waited, their whole future hanging from it.

“Based upon the uncontroverted evidence of numerous witnesses and exhibits and the evidence of your own tongue and hand, the Committee finds you guilty of the following Transgressions. Firstly: Unauthorized Disclosure of Council Secrets to discernible potential enemies of the Council (to wit: the Dusmanos Clan of Kaldarash Gypsies; the Vampire Angelus; one Benjamin Francis Wallace, a known former agent and persistent adherent of the United States of America, an entity long known to be hostile to the Council; one Willow Rosenberg, a powerful Natural Witch of unknown allegiance; and The Wizard Ethan Rayne, despite previous warnings regarding same).” Buffy almost literally had to bite her tongue at that. She had been warned that the findings of fact might not match her view of reality and that they didn't have to, but _still_.

“Secondly,” Robson continued, sounding for all the world like the voice of Condemnation itself, “Fornication and Defilement of the most vile type upon the person of the Slayer, Buffy Summers, while in your charge as Primary Field Watcher.” Buffy closed her eyes and counted backwards from one hundred, taking care to keep her breathing slow, deep and even as Robson kept up the list of 'sins' Giles had committed. “Thirdly: Incitement to Insubordination in causing the said Slayer to enter into the commitments of marriage and parenthood without the leave of the Council. Fourthly: Insubordination in publicly questioning and condemning the past actions of the Council and its agents in the matter of the Slayer, Dahlia Harrow.”

There were gasps at that. Buffy's eyes popped open in time to see a look of absolute shock and then of frightening anger flash across Giles' face before being subsumed in an ironic expression that might possibly have been classified as a smile. Finding that her hand had automatically strayed to the hilt of the knife hidden in her waistband, under her jacket, Buffy forced herself to release the weapon and partially relax as it became clear that violence was not imminent, a realization that brought relief, but with a bitter aftertaste of defeat. Until she had heard it with her own ears, Buffy would not have imagined that anyone could have the balls (or the inhumanity) to _reprimand_ someone for verbally objecting to his own mother's murder. It was like all of the cliched portrayals of Nazi bureaucrats she had ever seen, leaning (to the point of absurdity she had once thought) on the 'banality of evil' theme. In her head, she could almost hear the them music from _Brazil_. The thing was, these were supposed to be the good guys, the leaders of Team Let's Not Destroy the World. It was like finding out the Allies had had concentration camps too or something.

“For the Punishment, Atonement and Correction of these Transgressions,” Robson went on, his voice as harsh as ever, as if he had no doubt as to the justice of the sentence, no sympathy with the defendant, “you are indefinitely removed from consideration for active field service in any capacity as Watcher and permanently reassigned to miscellaneous axillary service under the direct supervision of the Inner Council to be performed without compensation, without complaint and without question. Any failure to serve as instructed will result in further discipline. You are hereby made a surety for the good conduct of those to whom you have disclosed Council secrets and liable to be held to answer for any hostile use or rediscloser of said secrets by any of the above listed persons. Thus Sayeth the Disciplinary Committee on behalf of and with the full voice and authority of the Watchers Council of Britain, having charge and care of the Line of the Chosen, in accordance with our ancient and sacred trust. What sayest thou, Brother Watcher, having heard our Judgment?”

“Truly,” Giles said, his voice hard, tense, violently polite, “This seemeth more than just.” What he did next was noticeably more than a nod. It was an actual fucking bow, though not a very deep one. Given the awkwardness of Giles bending even slightly at the waist in his condition, there was no way of not noticing it happening. Robson nodded, a deep nod, but a nod, bending at the neck and not at the waste as Giles had. The room exhaled a collective sigh that covered Buffy's intake of breath. When Giles walked back and stood next to Buffy, she leaned into him and clasped his hand supportively, expressing only one strong note of all the confusing things she felt. Resentment, anger, fear, disgust; all these went unexpressed. He didn't need that from her right now and there was no advantage in letting any of the rest of them see it either. No wonder Giles was always so good at hiding and repressing what he was really feeling, Buffy thought. A few days in Watchersville would teach anybody to clam up in self defense.

It was Buffy's turn next, but she barely listened. All she was getting was a reprimand and a caution to do whatever Peter said from now on. She wasn't too worried about that, since Peter would have had to be the one to say something about it if she didn't. As Robson droned on, her mind drifted to worries of the Hellmouth variety, namely what all could go wrong in Sunnydale while she was being held hostage by the Queen of England. Grampa Wallace, apparently with some help from Giles, had figured out that there was in fact a Slayer called on Kendra's death, one Quentin had known about and hidden from the Council all along. Faith Ericson, a wanted serial killer, last seen fleeing Phoenix, Arizona with her murder suspect father. Without his help, the Council might not have known about her or about Travers' gang of rogue Council Agents now in custody in Arizona. So of course, helping them find that out was one of the many things for which Giles had just been officially punished.

“What say you, Slayer, having heard our Judgment?” Robson finally concluded.

Buffy looked up at the seven men seated there. She looked each of them in the eye, before settling on Robson. She knew she shouldn't have, but she took a lot of satisfaction in how unsettled they looked, how worried that she wouldn't play along. “I accept your judgment,” she said simply, doing a damn good job of keeping the bitterness out of her voice if she did say so herself. After all, it was no use making enemies of the Council all over again. Like it or not, they were all basically on the same side after all. When it came right down to it, these were still the Good Guys even if they weren't always such very good people.

*****

“Lindsey McDonald,” She said, unleaning from the wall of the arrival's terminal, long and thin and just a little bit beautiful. It wasn't a question, more of an assessment. “Lilah Morgan,” she said with a slight smile, the kind that said the appraisal was guardedly positive, shifting her briefcase to offer her hand.

It was Lindsey's turn to smile. “I've had the pleasure,” he explained, taking her hand. “It's good to see you again, Ms. Morgan.”

Lilah gave him a look, as though he'd intrigued or perhaps impressed her very, very slightly. “I'm usually pretty good at noticing people,” she said, as she ushered him towards exit. It was almost but not quite an apology, conceding a point but not acknowledging a regret at the loss. “And I almost always remember meeting another Sun Devil in the wilds of Los Angeles.”

“A couple of crowded meetings,” Lindsey replied with self-satisfied modesty, “I was quiet. I'm pretty good at not being noticed until I want to be.”

That smile again. “You've been with The Firm eight months,” she not quite asked. Lindsey nodded anyway.

“As an associate,” Lindsey confirmed. “But I clerked with Wolfram & Hart both summers during law school. The Firm had had plenty of opportunities to test my response to... complex issues of professional ethics, and I assure you—”

She favored him with a different smile this time; crueler, more amused but still soft, charming. “We flew you out here on exactly no notice, in a mad scramble to find another associate with an Arizona bar card, after Lee Mercer balked at the last minute. Frankly, he may be facing termination. Do you really think the ethical issue is going to be that complex? I assure you what you're expected to do with Mr. Claybrooke is extremely straightforward. My representation of Mr. Weatherby, on the other hand, could be a little tricky. Especially the part where I actually have to represent him, a problem I assure you, you will not have with Mr. Claybrooke.”

*****

By the time the Council finally adjourned, it was nearly ten at night. Never the less, Morrison was dispatched by Julian himself to go and meet with Wesley at once at his place of confinement. When the elder Watcher explained why, “Good Lord,” was just about all Morrison could think to say. He must have said it one too many times, because Julian became impatient, defensive.

“What would you have us do?” the Seatholder demanded. “My son is a Watcher, just like the rest of us. Sacrifices have to be made, and it so happens that in this instance he is the one of us in the best position to make them.”

“No doubt,” Morrison agreed hastily, “no doubt.” He hung up and went to do as he had been told.

*****

“No, I haven't the slightest idea how long we shall want to stay,” Giles blithely informed the desk clerk, an impatient, skeptical-looking young man who was frankly better dressed than either of them. “I should think a month at least.”

Buffy tried not to gasp. “Can we afford that?” she hissed, loudly enough to get the young man's undivided attention and to affix an extremely sour look onto his face.

“It's all being paid from the Corporate Account, Dear,” Giles reminded Buffy sharply. His look and tone scolded her for her appalling lack of etiquette and sophistication to the point that it almost made her _want_ to embarrass him, just for spite. He was tired, Buffy had to remind herself, and wounded in more ways that one. He was entitled to be a little bit of a jackass at the end of such a trying day. Not that she deserved to have to put up with it, but oh well. Sometimes life just sucks... much the way a five start hotel in London doesn't.

The clerk stayed suspicious for a little while, but when he asked Giles where he worked and heard the name of one of the Council's many shell corporations roll easily off his tongue, he traded his suspicion for mere disapproval and quickly, efficiently motioned for a bell hop to come remove them and their sturdy, once-expensive-but-now-well-used luggage from his ultra luxurious five star lobby. They were shown up to the fourth floor, to a surprisingly comfy looking three room suite overlooking the Themes. “Are you sure about this?” Buffy asked, sinking down onto a velvety green sofa that was like a bigger, plusher version of the one they had at home. “After everything we've just gone through, I don't want to piss the Council off over something as silly as a hotel bill.”

“Nonsense,” Giles replied cheerfully, getting himself settled onto the couch next to her and leaning his crutches against the end of it. “It is a requirement when one is obligated to serve without compensation that all of his or her traveling expenses should be paid in full when going about the Council's business. The Quarterly Meeting certainly qualifies when one has been expressly summoned to attend, not to mention the fact of your being detained in the country indefinitely for actions taken in the direct line of duty. They wouldn't dare refuse to honor that, it would disgrace them too much. If it makes them uncomfortable, good. They need to know that just because we choose to remain in their loyal service doesn't mean they can devalue us or push us around.”

Buffy tilted her head and gave Giles an appraising look. If this was some sort of sublimated vengeance, it was an odd way of going about it. Whatever; she was tired and the room was nice. And at least here was some sign that he wasn't going to just take every single bit of their bullshit lying down. Really, she should just figure that Giles knew what he was doing and try to enjoy the fact that the Watchers Council was apparently about to pay for the two of them to have an outrageously expensive extended Honeymoon, whether they knew about it yet or not. “Well, it can't hurt to stay here through the end of the Council Meeting next week anyway,” she said, thinking that after that they could probably go and stay at the home they apparently owned in Bath, which fortunately was not the one where his mother was buried in the back yard.

“Oh no,” Giles corrected her earnestly. “You mustn’t talk that way, mustn't even think it. The secret to living in hotels is to make oneself at home, quite literally. Never think of it as only for a few days. Never commit to a departure date if you can help it. Or nothing shorter than a minimum apartment lease at any rate. An attitude of permanence, of taking up residence, is the key to invitation control. And in hotels especially, but all rental accommodations really, it is so important that those with the power to eject you regard you as residing, rightfully, on their premises on a permanent basis. An attitude of sufferance on the part of a superior estate holder (as opposed to an acknowledgment of your rightful subtenancy) can prove deadly.”

Buffy almost laughed. He just looked so adorably serious. “Then I guess we were taking our lives in our hands,” she teased, “checking into the Pacific Coast Motor Lodge.”

“Not at all,” Giles informed her, eyes glinting with mischief, eager to share the joke with her at last. “I gave them four weeks rent in advance and a nonrefundable extended stay maintenance deposit. That's one of the reasons I was so keen to use the card I'd had issued to Ethan.”

Buffy gave Giles a doubtful look that broke into a lopsided grin. “You're really sort of a scoundrel, aren't you?” she said.

“Well, you can't honestly argue that he doesn't deserve it,” Giles pointed out innocently/mock-innocently, his merry eyes betraying his otherwise deadpan expression. And of course, Buffy realized, the same thing was true of the Watcher's Council. That was the hard truth underneath the supposed joke. Giles was not in the slightest above committing theft and fraud as a form of revenge against a deserving enemy, a sort of partial repayment for all of the injustice and indignity they had visited upon him. Not sure what to think about that facet of his character, she decided to ignore it. If she could deal with the fact that her husband was a murderer, not to mention a Watcher, she supposed she shouldn't get too worked up about a little more or less justified thieving. It wasn't as though she had never stolen anything herself.

“So...” Buffy said, slipping into a smooth, satiny bedroom voice, “Here we are alone in this fabulous hotel suite... more or less on our honeymoon...”

“Yes,” said Giles, both his face and voice going suddenly grim, frustrated, slightly angry. “Here am I , stodgy old thing that I've become, after mind numbingly long years on my own, having just survived both the largest vampire battle of the past generation _and_ a Council Disciplinary Committee... Here am I in this lovely suite with my beautiful, young, sexually-athletic bride... and a broken hip.” And with that, suddenly, they were both laughing again, even harder than before.

“This is what would happen if O'Henry tried to write porn,” Buffy agreed, shaking her head as she wiped a few mirthful tears from her eyes.

Giles squeezed her hand affectionately, his own eyes smiling with a sort of sad cheer. “To be honest,” he admitted, “I'm exhausted, and my hip really is killing me. I think I'd best take something and then try to get some sleep.”

Buffy sighed and stood up, offering him a hand and a crutch. “Nothing like a quiet evening at home,” she said as cheerfully as she could manage.

*****

“Are you mad?” Wesley asked, when he had heard the plan.

“No,” said Morrison grimly, “and I fear, neither is your father, from whom I have brought you these instructions.”

For a moment, no one spoke. “I see the advantages,” Wesley finally admitted. “In all of it. For everyone but me of course, but then, that might be too much to ask, sacrifice, being the watchword.”

“Well,” said Morrison grimly amused, “if you'll forgive my saying so, there may be a couple of advantages in it for you. A beautiful young wife. A wealthy and influential father-in-law...”

“Ah yes,” Wesley sneered, not taking Morrison's humor in good grace. “A pack of blessing light upon my back(!) Allah Akbar! Why didn't I see it before? I may be losing my identity, my reputation and my freedom, but I least I'm being compelled to inter into an intimate relationship with a total stranger who's probably too primed to expect a lifetime of sexual slavery to be quite suicidal at the prospect! Bully for me(!)” Morrison gave him a patient look of mild disapproval and even milder sympathy. “It isn't that I mind The Faith as a whole so very much,” Wesley complained earnestly, “I mean, obviously Gaudencio converted and it didn't kill him. Besides, the things we Watchers actually know about the supernatural realms will hardly qualify as orthodox doctrine anywhere, it's just a matter of adopting _different_ ill fitting forms. It isn't even just that I mind the fact of living in exile, though I do. It's that sect. They're just so... anti-intellectual. I may never have a really decent conversation again as long as I live.”

“But surely you see,” Morrison urged just as earnestly, “how neatly it works everything out on all sides?”

Wesley sighed. He did see that. Of course he did. The Council would get a Watcher in place for it's otherwise unreachable Potential. Heathcliff Gaudencio would have someone he trusted to manage his extensive affairs in the East while he was required to remain in London. The Council would have a plausible explanation to present to the authorities as to what had 'really happened' at the Allenby House to leave eighty-seven people (including twenty-two police) dead and hundreds more injured. It would be an explanation that would neither tarnish the reputations of the many other survivors, including the Slayer, nor require the police to admit that they had been entirely mistaken and at fault in conducting their mass arrest, because they would have taken the one guilty man among all the others. More a dupe of terrorists than a terrorist, but still, a guilty man. Even the Government stood to benefit by strengthening a back door connection with a powerful South Asian warlord while at the same time making that connection even more deniable. Ultimately, it was even probable that his father's position within the Government would be improved in the long run, though he would suffer a great loss of face at first. Even “terrorists” did have a strange way of becoming rehabilitated when they had enough power in their own territory and when enough money was involved. It was possible that he might even be able to return to England someday, after the pipeline had gone through and had made his new 'father-in-law' oh so imminently respectable again.

Wesley even understood why it made such perfect sense that he should be chosen for this assignment. Firstly, the police already wanted his head because he had been personally seen to seriously injure several of their men. His was a sacrifice they were not only prepared to accept but already demanding. Secondly, he had studied the Muslim faith for a number of years with a keen if entirely academic interest. He spoke Arabic, and a smattering of Pushtu. Of all the young Watchers available, he would be among the most plausibly able to be passed off as a sincere convert. And to this petty theocrat's way of thinking, having gotten himself involved in a terrorist attack on a target in London would help to prove his sincerity, though certainly not his good sense. He would be presented as a young, over-enthused convert, a relative of Gaudencio's, who had gotten himself into trouble with the Western authorities by trusting the wrong sort of cleric and who needed both a place to hide and to be trained up into a better path. At the same time, it would be made clear that he was a wealthy and connected marriage prospect, who might actually be able to have a quietly positive impact on finally bringing the pipeline project to fruition. The fact that he was a part of the same secret society as Gaudencio and could help to prepare this man's extraordinary daughter for the sacred duty he already believed she had been called to by God, though not enough to justify allowing a new, male non-family member to spend time with her, would help to justify making _him,_ as opposed to any other wealthy young Muslim man,her husband.

Wesley's heart sank. He sat for a long moment with his face in his hands. The whole thing fit together much too well to think of getting out of it. He'd have nothing left. He was being asked to give all: his heart, body and soul. He would lose his nationality and even his name. All in the service of the Council. Which as a Watcher, he could hardly refuse to do. It was his destiny. Sighing, he looked up at last and said, “Well, I suppose you can at least tell me her name so that I can pick something suitable to go with it?”

“Aabirah,” Morrison said. Wesley smiled. It was an adjective, Arabic of course, though the young lady herself was not. It spoke of all things fleeting and illusory. An excellent name for a Slayer, a terrible name for a wife. But, Wesley thought, if neither the marriage nor the lady was to last, even if he himself did not long survive them; hopefully, the peace that the Council would be thereby making with the police, the Government, and even the petty warlords of Afghanistan might. And certainly, if he did this, no one could ever again question his commitment to the cause. If he did this, no one could ever again say what he knew for a fact they had all been saying behind his back nearly every single day of his life: 'That Wesley is a nice enough lad and reasonably bright, but when push comes to shove, he'll never make a Watcher. Hasn't got the stomach for it.' No one would ever again whisper or joke about how pitiful it was to see this trembling, clumsy, milquetoast, inadequate being that was Julian's only son. If nothing else, that ought to make his father happy. God knew nothing else he'd done in his life ever had. Though a moment earlier he'd been afraid he might humiliate himself by bursting out weeping, Wesley suddenly found that he was laughing near hysterically. 'Deny the father and refuse thy name? Well maybe there was something to be said for becoming a man without a country after all.

*****

Joyce was quiet as she packed, thoughtful, subdued. Brian didn't like it. She'd been like that too much since he'd moved in. “Are you sure you don't want me to come with you?” he asked, for maybe the fifth time. Joyce sighed, not quite exasperated just... unidirectionally tired. She didn't bother to try to explain it again; that it wasn't that she didn't want his company, his support, that it wasn't about what she wanted, that it was a family thing, and that while, yes, he was family now, this was no time for Buffy to have to learn or deal with that.

Time passed. Joyce kept packing. “But it's such a long flight,” Brian started in again, trying another tack. “Don't you think you might—”

“Dr. Kim says it's perfectly safe,” Joyce countered what was not quite his argument, cutting him off in mid-sentence.

Brian took a deep breath and reminded himself what he was doing here. This was not a relationship that he was in just for the sake of being in a relationship, and not one he could risk being thrown out of for insisting upon the respect due a husband, which was exactly what he wasn't. “I'm sorry, baby,” he apologized, walking up behind her, wrapping her in his arms, kissing her on the back of the neck. “I just worry about you. That's all.”

Her reaction, he notice was not particularly mollified, more resigned. She felt trapped, Brian realized, suppressing his own sigh of frustration. That would never do. If this was going to work, he needed her to be hopelessly devoted, to put all her faith and trust in him. He needed to turn up the charm. “Alright,” he said. “I get it. You go do what you need to do and I'll... keep the home fires burning. But don't stay gone too long or you might not recognize the place.”

Her face softened from seriously worried to playfully wary. “And why's that?” she asked, letting him embraced her and kiss her neck again.

Brian shrugged and gave her his best boyish grin. “I'm an antique dealer,” he said. “Penelope weaves, I redecorate.”

*****

Cordelia really didn't have much of a choice. It was twenty minutes 'til seven. If she didn't get back soon, there'd be hell to pay one way or another. Maybe even the kind that involved being sent to a Convent in Switzerland or somewhere. That would be a real shame. Especially after how well the tryouts had gone, how well every single aspect of her plan seemed to be shaping up in fact. Still, soon was not the same thing as right now. She decided to take a walk (or rather a sneak) around the grounds of the school and see if she could spot any monsters. Not to engage, not all by herself. She wasn't crazy. Or Buffy. But she wanted to test out the scouting and tracking skills she'd been learning. And she wanted to avoid going home for another ten or fifteen minutes. And she wanted to distract herself from Xander, from what her crazy gut feelings kept telling her it meant that he still hadn't emailed her.

He was probably just putting on a brave face, Cordelia tormented herself. He probably didn't really want to get married and have babies and stay together forever. Why would he? He was a seventeen-year-old boy. It was frankly a crazy thing to want. She wasn't even the least bit sure that she wanted it and she was the one getting irrationally attached to the as yet almost unnoticeable being living in her abdomen. Obviously, Xander didn't have that problem. He had just felt obligated to say all that stuff about still loving her and wanting to keep it because he didn't want her to have another abortion. Probably just because it went against his losingclass religion and politics and his horndog male instincts, that was all.

But no, Cordelia didn't really believe that. Or anyway, most of her didn't. She remembered not only his words from the other night, but the way he had looked and sounded saying them. Xander Harris was not that good an actor. He was definitely in love with her, even if religion and politics might also be getting in the middle of things. He wanted _her,_ even if she came with marriage and babies. He was probably just having trouble getting computer time. After all, Sheila letting him hang around at all hours had had to end sometime, even if she was missing Willow and helping him for her sake. There was only so much 'funny' Xander that such an uptight person could possibly take. He'd get in touch when he could, Cordelia reasoned. She just had to be patient, that was all.

Suddenly, Cordelia was knocked from her thoughts and nearly off her feet by the appearance of a huge scaly demon! Out of nowhere! Inches from her face! A scream curdling in her throat, she took a few quick, stumbling steps backward and instinctively raised the cross in her hand, like a shield. The creature batted it away, knocking her to the ground. Cordelia really did scream then, but the demon remained eerily silent, not even crying out when it cut it's hand on the sharp edges of the cross. Cordelia screamed even harder as she finally processed the reason why. The thing didn't even have a mouth!

Injured as it was, the creature was still far stronger than Cordelia. It grabbed her by the wrists and hauled her to her feet, all the time leaking some kind of disgustingly viscus iridescent fluid from it's open wound onto her skin. As the thing slammed her up against the wall of the gymnasium, her mind flailed frantically for a plan of escape, but nothing came to her. She was alone, unarmed, absurdly weak. She was starting to get why Giles's first answer to 'how do I fight demons?' had been 'you don't'. She was beginning to think he should have stuck to that. After all, what was the point of being older and wiser if you were just going to surrender your better judgment to the insistence of a stubborn sixteen-year-old girl?

Gunfire split the night, two shots in rapid succession. Close and impossibly loud. Cordelia might not have heard the creature if it had cried out, but it didn't. It crumpled and fell back, still clutching her wrists, pulling her down on top of it. As she pulled herself free and staggered to her feet, Cordelia looked up into the eyes of her rescuer. It was Mr. Miller, wearing and honest to god trench coat and holding a great big cannon of a handgun. “What's the matter with you!” Cordelia shouted over the ringing in her ears. “That thing could have shot straight through that monster and killed me. Haven't you ever read the Warren Commission Report!”

Mr. Miller grinned, shoving the gun back into his deep coat pocket. “You're welcome,” he said. “Now get in your car and go home. You father will be worried, and I sure as hell don't want him worrying at me.”

*****

_The night was black. The wind screamed. The flood gushed. Willow stood beneath the dark, churning sky, arms up-stretched, screaming. Lightning blasted the ground all around, setting trees and underbrush ablaze on every side, but it didn’t dare to strike Her. The strobing flashes of electricity distorted Her emaciated features, giving Her the appearance of a gnarled old woman, or possibly an ancient tree. Her red hair flew around her, blazing like fire despite the wind and rain._

“ _Enough already!” She shouted. “Yes, I screwed up! What do you want from me!?!” The night was split by a piercing shriek of laughter or rage or both. The voice was inhuman yet at the same time fiercely female. The monstrous cackle of a goddess._

 _Among the singed and smoking vegetation, the vampire growled. A dozen, a score, a hundred, a thousand. Of Spike. “Really, Willow Dear,” they simpered and censured at the same time, “is_ this _what you want?” The forest rang with the softly cutting echoes of Sheila’s voice._

“ _No!”Willow begged, weeping now, suddenly very small, “Please, God, no!” The night grew darker still. The lighting ceased though the thunder continued. The vampire ceased to growl but not to menace. They waited, watching, unseen. The goddess shrieked once more in frustration or amusement and was gone._

_Silence. Nothingness, of which gray or dark would have been too vivid a description. Willow stood alone. Well, sort of. ‘Stood’ was an exaggeration, imposing a false sense of form, of structure, of space and gravity where there was none. Suddenly…or gradually… or all along(?) there was someone there (‘there’ also being sort of an exaggeration) with her. “What?” He demanded impatiently._

“ _Help me,” she begged. “Please? I’m sorry. I don’t_ like _this anymore!”_

“Humans _!” He said with mild reproach, shaking His head, “You’re all alike, always wanting something for nothing: Love without pain, life without death, profit without labor, redemption without sacrifice, patience with tribulation, victory without risk, signs without faith, food without calories, sex without babies, forgiveness without repentance! Every single one of you! You never grow up! You want the prize in the cereal box, but you don’t want the cereal.”_

_Willow found herself at a loss, blinking bewilderedly at this diatribe that somehow she didn’t find quite as presumptuous as she thought she should have, such gentle, affectionate scolding of the whole human race, and with such a ring of truth and authority…“Who are you?” she finally managed to stammer._

“ _Wow,” said her companion dryly, “I never get tired of_ that _question(!)”_

“ _I mean…” Willow fumbled, “Obviously you’re a—well but I mean, are you_ The _—oh God! Oh, no! I didn’t mean—”_

“ _You_ _know who I Am,_ ” _He reminded her impatiently. “You were the one who called me, remember? Which by the way shows some serious chutzpah, under the circumstance. I mean, for infinity’s sake, kid, what was the_ first _thing I told you to do?”_

“ _Be fruitful and multiply?” Willow pointed out hesitantly, hopefully, just a little apologetically for the act of pointing out._

“ _Don’t be a smart ass, kid. I have a thing for ordered relations. First is first for a reason.”_

“ _They were never..._ before _you, just... more convenient,” Willow mumbled, looking in a way that might have been down if there had been a down to look._

_He laughed. “That’s a good one,” He said. “Try that one on your friend Oz next. Which reminds me, you're O for ten here, kid.”_

“ _Wait just a minute!” Willow objected fiercely. “I’ve never killed anybody!” But in the nauseous silence that filled with the unreal realization of who she was yelling at, she thought of her mother and, without quite being able to justify the assessment, of Amy._

_He tilted His head from side to side like a metronome as if to say the point was debatable. “Look, kid,” He said at last, “You want my help? We both know what you have to do to get it. We both know you’re not there yet, not nearly. In the meantime, you want miracles? You want to see signs and wonders? You want all your problems solved for you? Try asking your ‘friend’ Hecate for help. See if she makes you a better offer.”_

 

 


	4. The Real Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In the end, we all are who we are, no matter how much we may appear to have changed."  
> ~Rupert Giles, "Lessons", BtVS 7.1
> 
> "We aren't happy to see old friends(?)"  
> ~Buffy Summers, "Faith, Hope, and Trick", BtVS 3.3
> 
> "You can't trust people; you'd think I'd learn that by now."  
> ~Faith, "Revelations", BtVS 3.7

The stares the long, lithe, brunette got as she disembarked at LAX were partly appreciative and partly envious, depending on the perspective of the person doing the staring. Bloody fools. Wouldn't they all be surprised to get what they were wishing for? Ignoring the unwelcome attention as best he could, Weatherby made for the trolly that would transport him to the next terminal, where he would catch his flight for London. Unfortunately, there were certain necessities that couldn't be avoided on the way. He felt self-conscious, humiliated, but there was nothing for it. He passed up the Gents and headed straight for the Lady's.

When he was alone in the stall, he thought he might feel a little better, but the reality of what had to happen in there was infinitely worse. He'd born witness to a lot of ungodly occult phenomena during his years in the service of the Council, but this? Perverted didn't even begin to cover it. He sat down on the toilet and completed his unnervingly quiet business. He tried not to think or feel too much (in more ways than one) as he completed the entirely necessary hygienic procedure that followed. For once, he was loath to walk out of the loo without washing his hands, but a dense flock of women crowed the sinks and mirrors, and he didn't dare. He tried to tell himself he was imaging their disgusted looks and disproving whispering, biting down on the galling realization that he couldn't help but care. 

As he reached a bank of courtesy phones at last, the distorted glimpse of a bearded, masculine face that he caught in the stainless steal partition between phones reassured and steadied him, giving him the strength to dial the familiar number and even to be bitterly amused at himself for needing something external to steady him and give him strength. The word 'unmanned' kept hanging around somewhere in the back of his mind but he didn't entertain it. “Mr. Giles,” his call was answered perfunctorily by the men himself. 

“It's happened,” Weatherby informed him in a smooth, feminine contralto. 

“Several gentlemen of our mutual acquaintance will be relieved to hear that the business is concluded,” Andrew assured him, sounding appropriately somber.

“He had his affairs in order,” Weatherby answered back in that same satin voice, “same as all of us. I'll just be glad to get home and to get back to being more myself again.” 

He told himself he was probably imagining the subtle hint of amusement in Andrew Giles' voice when he replied, “Indeed.” 

*****

Willow sat up with a start and nearly fell from her bunk. The dream had been a bad one. That much she knew, but that didn't matter now.Finally, impossibly, mercifully, it was morning again. Wednesday morning. Willow didn't get her hopes up much at first, figuring this would be just another day of hunger, boredom and disappointment, which was still better than another night of long, tedious wakefulness punctuated by longer, even more unwelcome sleep and frightful, half-remembered dreams. But beyond her greatest hopes, this was the day that the nurse arrived to perform her mental health assessment, finally having gotten permission on the grounds that the people from SDMH clearly weren't coming and that Dr. Upton could always sign off on it when he got back.

Predictably, she concluded that Willow was right as rain and ready to get cracking on her studies. This despite the fact that she was thin, pale, shaking. Despite her stringy hair, haunted eyes and monosyllabic responses. In short, despite the fact that she seemed exactly as if she had been locked in solitary confinement on less than half rations, with no opportunity to shower and plagued by unspeakable mental torment and lack of rest for at least two weeks. “Knowing” as she did that this was all a ruse, the nurse saw what she expected to see. After all, she was from Sunnydale.

Willow was given a few minutes to freshen up before her morning classes. She didn't bother. She didn't feel like it. Instead she rushed to her cell to wolf down the rest of Ms. Waddle's crackers, then spent her ten minutes in the shower room on a brief incantation to help her appear freshened up and eight and a half minutes of endless, restless sleep. Then it was off to the computer room, where she had too much work to catch up on to worry about hacking the webmail block, even if she hadn't still felt so exhausted, starved and unfocussed. Maybe tomorrow. It was all she could do today to work in a little surreptitious research, correlating the comings and (especially) goings of the Mayor's early rivals, allies and enemies with the horrible supernatural occurrences that always seemed to accompany them. That and a couple of impromptu naps, which didn't help at all.

By lunchtime, Willow felt like a Zombie. Her aching, exhausted body was so empty of nourishment and her mind so stuffed with dreadful knowledge that she had all but forgotten her first endless, miserable night on suicide watch, never mind why she had gone there in the first place. But in the dazzling noonday sun that pierced the dining hall through a few high, narrow windows stood a horrifying and confusing reminder. Sheila Zucker was still there, wearing the same baggy jumpsuit as everyone else, her face and arms bare.

She was alive.

“Hey,” Sheila said, “Hey,Willow, where are you going? Sit with me.”

“Well I um, it’s just I…” Willow stammered.

Sheila smiled her one-lip-only-slightly-pulled-back-to-give-a-mere-glimpse-of-teeth smile. “You thought I was dead, didn’t you?” she asked, amused at Willow’s discomfort. Under the weight of a lot of staring, some of it pretty official, Willow took a seat next to her acquaintance-so-old-she-almost-might-as-well-be-a-friend. Sheila looked stealthily around. “I was,” she whispered. “That’s the weird part. I was dead, and then I was a vampire, and then I was dust. But I’m not anymore. I’m so frickin alive they’re trying to make me go to school again.”

“The ritual!” Willow gasped, “The Healing of the Dark Moon!”

Sheila shrugged. “I guess,” she said. “That’s what Spike called it anyways, something like that.” If Sheila noticed Willow’s wince at the mention of Spike’s name, she didn’t let on.

“I’m such an idiot,” Willow said, thinking of the ass she had made of herself Saturday night, the permanent damage she'd done to her on-paper reputation, for a full ten seconds before being slammed by the much more profound implications of all of this that she had once again somehow managed to miss. And of course the fact that she really was pathetic, moronic and all things weak and useless. And now she would have to wait until tomorrow to email Xander and give the gang the heads up. Assuming something else didn't go wrong to stop her.

Sheila shrugged and went on eating; well, poking at her food anyway, as she cheerfully described how much less boring she hoped it would be having Willow 'home' from suicide watch. She didn’t seem to be hungry, Willow noticed jealously. “Are you done with that roll?” Willow asked hopefully, hating herself even more.

Sheila shrugged again. She made a quick, furtive survey of which eyes were on them, then delftly switched her nearly full tray for Willow's totally empty one. “The food here doesn't agree with me,” she said, “help yourself.” Willow smiled wanly as she thought, ‘this could be the beginning of a miserable friendship.’

*****

“Got a light?” the girl asked. Ben looked up into dark, tired eyes in a face that somehow looked both tragic and casually beautifully. Like a hooker, only not strung out. Then again, maybe they didn't _all_ have to be strung out. She was standing on the balcony next to his, a thin iron rail between them, at the crappy ass motel between the bus depot and the airport that he had picked for the sheer fact that he could afford to pay for it a month in advance and still eat for a month on the money he'd gotten from his partial student housing refund. Because, just for a little while, he needed to sleep in a bed that Glory and her scabby minions hadn't paid for.

The girl's hair was as short as a man's with blonde tips and black roots, like she had tried to cut all of the blonde out but just couldn't make herself cut that close to the scalp. Wanna be ex-hooker maybe? Maybe she had a ticket on an Eastbound anything, cutting her losses and going home. The way he had always wanted to. If he'd had any home to go back to. Maybe. Her eyes were growing impatient. She held out her unlit cigarette. “Those things will kill you you know,” Ben said automatically.

“You know what? Screw you!” the girl half shouted, suddenly very angry, as if she had been waiting patiently to be offended. She stomped over to the other side of her balcony, shook a Zippo into her hand from the sleeve of her denim jacket, lit up and stood smoking with her back to him, staring into the electric twilight of the L.A. night.

Ben sighed, regretting the unpleasant realization that he had probably just turned down free sex with a beautiful girl by being too dense to read her not-at-all subtle signals. Besides the fact that it made him feel like an idiot, he wanted to have sex. He suddenly realized how very much. Between working his ass off for years for nothing and randomly truing into a crazy bitch at inopportune moments, he really hadn't had the chance that often. “That's just something I have to practice saying for medical school,” he tried to flirt, joke and apologize all at the same time. “It's for 'how to be a pompous prick' class. What do you think? Am I ready for my practical?”

She half turned back to him. Her small, cigarette-interrupted, almost smile was knowing and skeptical. It was a start. “Yeah,” she said, “I almost thought you were a real doctor. I mean if _all_ you had to be was a major asshole.”

She said it, Ben tried to reassure himself, in the nicest possible way. “I also have really crappy handwriting,” he persisted, grinning boyishly for all he was worth.

She leaned back against the side of the painted cinder-block building and finished her cigarette. The night air was dry and cool. Cars rushed by on the freeway, a continual white noise. “Alright,” she said, stubbing the butt of her cancer stick against the wall and suddenly leaping onto and over the interstitial railing, as lightly and as quickly as a cat, forcing him back a few steps with equally catlike indifference, “That's enough small talk. Let's party.”

*****

“For God's sake, woman, stop fussing with your damned hair!” Spike all but snarled.

“It just doesn't look quite right,” Harmony pouted, turning her head from side to side in front of the closed circuit T.V. monitor. There was no living with her now that she had the functional equivalent of a mirror again. And a little status to protect. Spike sighed. He wanted her to look good, of course. He needed her to. If he was going to sell himself as a rising king, he needed his queen to be beautiful and imperious. But he didn't need her to be such a pain in the ass about it. Drusilla had never needed a mirror. When he told her she looked perfect, she had always taken him at his word.

Once again, Spike silently cursed the tech craze that was sweeping Paris, and the mysterious name that was on everyone's undead lips because of it: “The Trio”. If he didn't find out who those wankers were, and soon so that he could dominate, co-opt, undermine, out smart and/or murder them; they would be the rulers of Paris and Spike would have to find another sandbox to play in. For now, it was easy to make fun of their silly looking sun-suits, and to kill any of his lot he saw wearing one. But you'd have to be a fool not to see that the idea had merit in the long-run. Just the thought of daytime freedom, of daytime hunting, had gotten under everyone's skin. It was that he had to complete with if he wanted any juice in this town. The Trio had a dream of blue skies and sunshine to sell. Spike had to keep consistently delivering a reality of bloodshed at all hours.

“Come on baby,” he said firmly, pulling Harmony to her feet. “Your sodding hair is fine. Let's go round up the boys and drag the metro.”

*****

Ben groaned with a pleasure so intense it was almost a species of agony. She was on top for now, riding him hard and fast. He hoped she would finally finish him off a second time, he begged her to in groans and broken fragments of words, but soon they were changing positions again. He felt like they had changed positions fifty times since that first, embarrassingly close to immediate, orgasm he'd had when she'd knelt with her knees on either side of his head, her warm dripping pussy swaying above his face and started sucking his cock.

It was exhausting, all this constant shifting around. He was almost certain that she meant it as a form of punishment for his initial speedy performance. And yet, each and every one of those positions felt so damn good for the short time she let him experience it that he found himself constantly thanking her rather than complaining. The fact that he had given her at least three orgasms worth shouting and screaming about didn't make him feel too shabby either.

This time she rolled onto her back, forcefully pulling him on top of her, keeping him inside of her as they moved. He fucked her harder, faster, just as she demanded. He was seconds away from coming (despite the aggressive, genuinely painful way she was clawing and biting at his back and neck) when suddenly she _held_ him still—her fingers biting into his shoulders, her cunt  _gripping_ his dick—and  _made_ him stop. 

“I could kill you, right now,” she said. “Or make you come inside me. Or both.” Her laughter was cruel, sardonic; but it was enough to hold on to if you wanted her words to be a joke as badly as Ben did at that moment. She smiled broadly, whispering somewhere between a purr and a sneer, “And people say God is a guy(!)”

*****

“This just counts as super ironic in my book!” the girl chattered, amiably disgruntled, constantly sneaking glances at her companions to see that she was being supported in complaining, not seeming to notice the difference between encouragement and a polite bluff of neutrality, “I mean, you would think a major airline could deliver people to the right country or at _least_ to the right landmass, I mean not that I haven't always wanted to see Paris...” _Hank_ was pretending not to notice the way she looked at him when she said that. Joyce was pretending not to notice she'd said anything at all.

She should have know better than to let Hank make the travel arrangements through his office, Joyce realized. Of course, they'd be seated together. All three of them. Mom, Dad and 'Assistant'. Who takes an assistant on a one meeting business trip incidental to a much longer, more personal trip he'd be taking oversees anyway? Someone who sleeps with his assistants and screws with his expenses, that's who. Alright fine. She wasn't his wife or his mother. It was more or less none of her business. But on _this_ trip? Really? Oh well, if there was one good thing about this trip so far, it was starting to cure her of the at-least-when-I-was-with-Hank-he-never-ness that had become a habit in her day to day with Brian. Every relationship had problems. It was probably just a matter of… adjusting to each other's expectations.

“It's fog,” Hank said finally, a good twenty minutes into Mitzie's soliloquy. “I'm pretty sure the airline didn't arrange for it.” The girl closed her mouth. She looked stricken. Enough for Joyce to feel bad for her and slightly more nettled at Hank. But not enough to wish she would start talking again. It was not a long hiatus. At last they landed, to the sound of immoderate ooing and ahing over that fact that Paris actually looked like Paris from the air, with an Eiffel Tower and everything. And of course, Notre Dame, which she pronounced like the football team in her almost-but-not quite-exactly-what-you-think-of-when-you-think-of-a-Southern-accent.

The minute the fasten seatbelts sign was off, Hank had his phone out, instructing someone back at the office (or maybe at the office over here) to arrange for three Chunnle tickets to London. They could have stayed the night in the romantic City of Lights at the airline's expense, of course, maybe even seen a few museums or the Arc de Triumph, or something. Mitzie really had always wanted to see Paris, and to be this close... But Hank and Joyce had things to do and Mitzie didn't dare to suggest it. She was the thirdest of all third wheels and she knew it. And anything she said or did to try to engage with them, either of them, only seemed to make it worse.

The most confusing part was that she had absolutely no idea why she was here, though Joyce made it subtly clear that she thought she knew. Whatever it was, it wasn't that. The more she went out of her way to be nice to Hank, the more distant he was to her. It was like he was embarrassed for her to keep existing after the things he had said to her about his family, like he hated to remember that he had ever had a weak moment or a bad day. When he'd stuck his head into her cube Tuesday at five and said, “Change of plans. I'm taking the London meeting instead of Newmark, and you're coming with me,” those were the first words he had said to her in a week. And the last until he'd met her at the airport on Wednesday, negating her sleepless, agonizing night of what-does-this-meaning by bringing along his ex-wife.

Mitzie just guessed she was eventually going to have to accept the fact that she did not understand men. Or women. Or people in general. Most the time, she felt like she was faking it pretty good. The grownup thing. The California thing. The professional thing. The hair and makeup from the magazines. Nobody actually laughed or pointed or threw things at her anymore. She hadn't been hit on the head with a math book in years. But on days like this, _especially_ on days like this (when her life looked on paper like an exciting adventure that everyone back at Northwood High would be jealous of, but everything she did or said was still just as wrong as it had ever been and she _still_ didn't know why) she might as well be back there. She might as well be walking those same hostile halls like the last four years never happened, frantically trying to open her locker with the combination she was _almost_ sure she remembered correctly _this_ time but somehow still couldn't make work. On days like this, however much she might appear to have changed, Mitzie Lovell knew that she would always be the exact same girl she'd been in high school. And the knowledge of who she really was haunted her like a ghost that would never fade away.

*****

“Excuse me,” Buffy said to the gate agent, pushing her way to the front of the line with her eyes and her posture more than with her shoulders and elbows. This was something she had learned to do long before becoming the Slayer. It was the kind of pleasant but effective pushing that made you a Fiesta Queen and a cheerleader leader, a sort of projected understanding that your questions, ought, by right, to be answered first and that other people would, of course, from sheer friendliness, basic politeness really, move out of your way. “Is that right?” she demanded cheerfully, gesturing towards the Arrivals monitor. “How do you _cancel_ and arrival? I mean, they're in the _air_? What's the problem?”

“Fog,” the grim faced Indian woman explained perfunctorily. “They've had to land in Paris, but the connection they were hoping to make back has been canceled as well, because the fog is not lifting. We are trying to put everyone onto afternoon flights, but they are already overbooked. It may be tomorrow morning before your party arrives, and we won't be able to give you information about the arrangements made for individual passengers. I'm afraid you'll simply have to wait to hear from them when they arrive.”

“You mean that's it?” Buffy half pouted, genuinely disappointed. “There's really nothing else you can tell me?”

*****

“Hi,” Ben said, when he had finally lain still a few moments and was able to catch his breath at last, “I'm Ben.”

“Congratulations,” the girl said, somewhere between mocking and indifferent. Ben blinked at her, realizing that there was nothing in her tone or body language to suggest good-natured teasing in any way shape or form. “It's been real,” she said, a little more civilly at least, as she hopped up from the bed and headed for the balcony, pulling on clothes as she went.

“Wait,” Ben called, flustered, “I don't even know your name! What if I want to see you again!”

She stopped and looked back at him, seeming genuinely annoyed, as if he were being an unbearably clingy wuss for wanting to know her name. “I live next freakin' door,” she pointed out. “You can knock on the damned window. I'm gonna hit the showers,” she said by way of parting words, “and see if I can catch a few before my old man wakes up.”

“Hey, whoa, your what now?” Ben got to his feet, stark naked and followed her to the balcony. He was shocked by how disappointed and angry he suddenly felt, which pissed him off even more. He was supposed to be sport fucking this chick, not feeling jealous and betrayed and half in love. Never-the-less, before he knew what he was doing, knowing damned well that he had no right to demand anything from her, he grabbed the girl by the arm and demanded, “you mean to tell me you're _with_ someone!?!”

The girl jerked her arm away so abruptly and so hard that Ben stumbled and had to brace himself against the sill of the sliding glass door to keep from falling on the floor. “Don't knock on my window,” she all but growled at him. “You've been warned.”

The casual, confident menace in her voice sent a chill of horror up Ben's spine. As she turned and began to pull herself up and over the rail, he felt almost as if... “Oh God no!” he groaned. “Please, God! Not now!”

Faith turned with both hands and one foot on the balcony rail and looked back at the guy, 'Ben', exasperated, wondering what the fuck he was up to with these goddamned hysterics. She was used to men 'falling in love' with her, of course, but she thought she had made it pretty fucking clear that that shit wasn't going to work this time. What was he, slow or something?

“Oh, oh God!” Ben continued to cry out, sounding somewhere between getting ready to come and waiting to throw up. Faith's exasperation turned to confusion, maybe even worry. He fell to the concrete balcony floor, and crouched there naked, on his hands and knees. Something was happening. His _hair_ was growing, his body was... pulsing? Fluctuating. April had assured her that _vampires_ were very, very real. And, at least from what Doug had been able to dig up from haunting the public library, which admittedly was mostly historical references to ancient rumors, the assholes that were chasing her sure as shit seemed to think so too. She wished she had thought to ask either of them about werewolves. 

Werewolf! Faith's brain was suddenly screaming it. She turned and was in the act of vaulting the rail, already rushing into her motel room in her mind, already waking up Doug and frantically inventorying everything in the room that could be used as a weapon, when she felt a hard, clawed hand catch her firmly by the ankle and heard an amused, shockingly normal sounding, feminine voice say, “Stick around, Honey! It's way too early to go home just yet.”

*****

They usually stuck to the tourists on the metro. It took longer for anyone to miss them, or to be sure where else they might have gone. At night, on the surface, they went after transients, who no one ever missed at all. They cleared them from the streets and gutters and took them down to the catacombs to await their resurrection. If there was one thing Spike had learned from living in and around Europe the last century and change, it was that the dispossessed could make great fodder for a revolution of pretty much any kind. They took their _meals_ by day in the metro, and like Robin Hood's Merry Men, distributed the contents of their veins and their wallets to Paris's emerging class of undead hunting poor. 

That was the grand idea anyway, “the current fantasy,” as Reggie (a tall, lanky, reasonably intelligent lieutenant of his, who had come of age in the 1960s) was wont to say. Not quite a week in, it was all so-far-so-good. They had added a dozen new spawn to their ranks already, with two dozen more waiting to rise, and there were still preexisting vamps from all over Europe joining them every day. There were also a lot of freebooters and undecideds rolling into town. And one by one falling under the techno-spell of the bloody Trio.

But at least today was shaping up to be another good day of hunting. On the first train they scoped from Charles de Gaul airport, bound for the main railway station, there was a car with only three people in it, a man and two women, dragging much too much expensive luggage around, just begging to be repurposed for the good of the masses. Spike signaled his crew to swarm the crowded platform just as the doors were getting ready to open, to push and jostle other would be passengers out of the way. Thirty vampires rushed inside and jammed the doors shut. “Alright, nobody m—!” Spike started to shout. The humans looked up worriedly. For a second, Spike felt almost as if his heart would start. “Oh balls!” he cried out, “It's  _you_ !” 

*****

Faith turned back towards the balcony where Ben had been and looked down, impossibly, into the face of a beautiful naked woman. Golden curls crowned her like a halo. Even in the dim glow of the distant streetlights, she was luminous. Her skin was perfect, creamy, flawless. Her lips were redder than cherries, redder than blood, as red as the  _idea_ of blood. Her long red lacquered nails bit into Faith's ankle just a little harder before letting go. “Let's chat,” she instructed with the glib confidence of one who has never been refused. 

She was obviously Ben's girlfriend, Faith instantly and firmly decided. And that son-of-a-bitch had had the nerve to get possessive with  _her_ . Instinctively, leveling all the rage she suddenly felt towards Ben at his girl, she gripped the railing with both hands, lifted both feet and kicked the woman several times in the face. Parts of her protested that it was a crappy thing to do, that  _Doug_ would think less of her. But then, the bitch _had_ put her hands on her. And anyway, why did she care what Doug thought? Besides, part of her mind was still screaming 'Werewolf!' without knowing why.

Then, all at once, something was happening that Faith wasn't prepared to expect. She was  _upside down._ Because the blonde bitch had  _caught_ her by the ankle and  _flipped_ her around. She was dangling three stories above asphalt and old cars. “What the fuck!” she gasped. 

The girl sighed boredly. “Are you why we're staying in this rat hole?” shed asked. “I should have known even little Bennie couldn't just want to be in a dump like this. You think if I drop you on your squishy little human head he'll be ready to leave?”

Faith was barely listening. For the first few seconds she struggled to right herself and/or land a blow, but even if she had succeeded in twisting herself like a pretzel in mid air to punch her enemy in the guts, the most she could achieve was to get dropped on her head sooner and for sure. Realizing that, she shifted her efforts to trying to figure or even control were she might land. The options, if you could even call them that, didn't look good.

It looked like a talking situation. Damn. She was a lot less good at those. And she hadn't expected to ever have to do them again. “What are you?” Faith asked, floored by the realization of the bitch's power. It was not that she had suddenly become helpless. Faith knew with the certainty of death that her strength was still with her, that she was no less superheroic than she had been ever since being called to Slay. This...  _thing_ was just plain stronger.

“You know, that's a good question,” the girl mused, seeming pleasantly flattered and mildly contemplative, “I honestly don't think there's a human word fabulous enough for me.” With the slightest of shrugs, her grip started to lessen. Panic welled up in Faith's chest too quickly to be channeled into words of protest, threatening to be released as a scream. “Well... unless you happen to have seen my Key lying around...”

Panic clutched like fingers at the outstretched realization and grabbed hold. Desperately, words finally began to pour from Faith's lips like a roaring fountain, unfiltered by thought of any kind. “The Key is the Link!” She declared, “The Link must be severed! Such is the will of God!” Time seemed to stop. The Beast flung her, unceremoniously (and painfully) to the iron mesh balcony floor. “Well... that's what that knight guy said anyway. Before I killed him,” she added embarrassedly; resentfully,defensively, leaping to distance herself from the spooky, cooky words that hung in the air, stinking of religion and unjustified certainty.

*****

Joyce was shocked. She was confused. But there was no time to be shocked and confused. These were vampires. They knew her. She was pretty sure one of them had been in Buffy's class at school and the leader himself was—There was no time to be shocked or confused. Joyce pulled a cross from her large shoulder bag and let the bag drop to the floor. “Get behind me!” she shouted to Hank and Mitzie. “Back up to the door!”

Mitzie opened her mouth as if to protest the craziness of it all. For a moment, Hank felt like doing the same thing. But he saw the look in Joyce's eyes. The certainty grounded in knowledge and experience. Joyce Summers was not crazy. This he knew if he knew nothing else. Moving quickly, before any of the attackers could find a way to get around them, Hank grabbed Mitzie by the elbows and pulled her behind Joyce. They backed up to the closest door on the side of the car that had not met the platform and therefore not opened at the last station. Joyce backed tightly against the others, shielding their little knot of living humanity with her upstretched cross.

“How do we work this?” Hank whispered in Joyce's ear over Mitzie's shoulder, not bothering with stupid questions like 'Who are these people?' or 'What the hell is going on?' or 'Are you sure you know what you're doing?'

Joyce appreciated that about him, she really did. She wished Brian could be that—Oh hell! Way to focus, Joyce(!) “I can hold them off with this for a couple of minutes if we stay tight against the door,” she said. “But if we don't pull into a station soon, or if the platform is on the wrong side. You'll have to try and force it.” He didn't waste his breath saying anything like 'But that will kill us,' either. Even Mitzie didn't say that, though Joyce half expected it. Spike and his minions all had their game faces on now, snarling and looking for an opening, to outflank the cross. Not even Mitzie had to be told that falling to their deaths from a moving train was the least of their worries.

“Bugger me for a sodding school boy,” Spike muttered, “It's not bloody worth it. Everyone, hold positions!” he added in a louder, more commanding voice.

“Oh, come on Spiky, why not?” Harmony pouted, backed by a general (supportively hostile) murmur. “I'm hungry.”

“Because, you stupid, bint,” he said ice-over-fire, pretending she was the only speaker in opposition, “This she _will_ come to Paris for!” 

Spike's face softened to human. At his stern look, the others growled and grudgingly did the same. Harmony was the last to convert, pouting more than ever, arms folded. The train pulled into a station. The doors opened on Spikes side. At his word, vampires parted, all unwillingly.

“My regards,” said Spike with a small bow, his voice straining to be pleasant, “to your lovely daughter.”

*****

“Where have you been?” Doug asked the minute Faith walked in, sounding way too fucking much like a parent. “It's after one o'clock.”

She slid the glass door shut, thinking about not answering at all. Thinking about packing. “I went out for a smoke,” she said finally. “And then I got laid. That guy, Ben, next door.”

Doug rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. Then he made himself uncross then, cracking an amused to be embarrassed smile. “Whatever,” he said. “I get it; you're a big girl. Just, next time warn me if you're going to be gone a while, alright.”

Faith felt a stab of something that she couldn't quite tell from affection or from guilt. He really wanted to go all stern and fatherly protective on her, or maybe even boyfriend jealous, but he was being cool about it instead, because he knew better than both. In a weird way, it made her kind of like the guy all over again, which made her feel like _she_ needed to protect _him_. And then he made it even worse. “Look,” he said, all serious, “I know its... lonely or whatever. But don't let anyone get too close to you. It's dangerous, alright?” Faith had to smile at that. As if. But then there was that feeling again. Because it really was sweet of him to worry about her like that. Especially after... everything.

Faith turned her face away, fiddling with the clock on her bedside table just for an excuse not to look Doug in the eye. She tried to make her voice sound as casual as possible as she said, “You know, I've been thinking. Maybe we should check out that Sunnydale place after all.”

Doug gave her a suspicious look but seemed to decide against asking her why. “Well, if you're looking to fight vampires,” he said, “now's the time.” He handed her the paper from the day before. “Apparently those Council folks, at least the one's that April actually met, are going to be in London for a while.”

*****

“I finally got a hold of Buffy,” Joyce said, walking back to the corner table in the noisy train station bar. “She's coming to the station to meet our train. Then we're all joining Rupert at their hotel for lunch.” Hank nodded, staring at his half empty scotch, his second. He was almost amused by the fact that he didn't have the emotional energy to be amused at the idea of his daughter's creaky old husband breaking a hip. Mitzie sat huddled in on herself, silent. She had refused anything but water, saying things felt strange enough without further altering her perception of reality.

Joyce sat a while longer, head in her hands, drained.They had an hour left to wait for their train to London. Half of it passed in numb, glorious silence. “Joyce,” Hank said finally, wearily, “what the hell is going on?” Mitzie's head popped up, quietly watchful. She hadn't dared to ask, but she definitely wanted to know.

Joyce smiled tiredly, “It's really pretty simple,” she explained. “We are living in one long, never ending apocalypse. Monsters and demons roam the Earth, killing and pillaging at will. And the only thing they're afraid of, the only thing that can stop them... is our little girl.”

 


	5. This Is Only a Test

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both Willow and Cordelia receive some unsettling revelations, Hank's ability to accept Buffy's destiny is tested, and several Watchers are called upon to do very shocking things to uphold their commitments to the Council. But the mission is what maters. Right?

“The Savoy?” Hank incredulously repeated Buffy's instruction to the cab driver as they got under way. “You're staying at the Savoy?” he demanded of Giles. “Why?”

“Because Claridge's is being renovated,” the smug son-of-a-bitch answered dryly. When he'd heard Buffy was planning to meet their train on her own and 'let him rest', he'd insisted on joining her, saying that to have done otherwise would be rude. Hank knew better, knew the type. Too stiff-necked to show any weakness. Now he was being 'witty' for exactly the same reason; to prove he was above caring what Hank's opinion of his conduct or character was. Whatever had happened with his father to end that cozy little domestic arrangement, he wasn't sharing, probably because it didn't reflect well on him. So he was just going to act like it didn't _matter_ that they were sleeping in a place that vampire might be about to walk into. Bastard.

“ _How_ are you staying at the Savoy?” Hank persisted.

“Hank—” Joyce began, her tone a quiet admonishment for him to behave himself, her hand on his arm feeling much the same.

“Joyce, this man has no job!” Hank cut her off sharply. “I want to know—”

As Joyce opened her mouth to scold him further, Giles opened his too, but was still groping for a sufficiently withering response when Buffy preempted them both. “The Council is paying for it, for everything,” Buffy assured her father, as if that fixed everything, made everything make sense. All that meant was that Giles was hosing the Council for every nickle he could get, or more accurately, putting Buffy up to doing that, since it'd be her expenses they'd be paying, now that they'd canned his ass. “And anyways, what business is it of yours where we get the money to pay for something,” Buffy kept on harshly, “I mean, I'm a grownup now, and Giles is my husband, and if you think you can be rude to him, then, I don't even know why you're here, because—” 

Finally, Giles cleared his throat and squeezed Buffy's hand, both very pointedly. That in conjunction with the worried looks that Joyce and Mitzie were lavishing on both Buffy and Hank finally gave her the clue that he wasn't too pleased to have his wife rushing to his defense. “I believe we've discussed this subject enough,” Giles said tensely, when Buffy paused uncertainly. Hank was tempted to keep pressing, especially on the issue of hotel safety, but then he'd have been the one in the dog house for good and all. Joyce was already in full see-no-evil-but-Hank, Buffy-Defender-Mode. She didn't even want him to discuss the fact that Buffy was clearly not going to finish the eleventh grade this year as Mr. I-Understand-the-Value-of-an-Education had promised. And She had already made it clear that she had bought this 'Chosen One' garbage, hook line and sinker. Just exactly the way she was now credulously swallowing all of his lines about how a five start suite could be made into a home by the power of possessive thinking.

Hank wasn't buying any of it. This man's way of scamming a living showed that he couldn't be trusted and neither could this organization he'd gotten Buffy involved in, the London Council of Stuffed-Shirt Punks Who Get Little Girls to Do Their Fighting for Them. They'd obviously manipulated Buffy and who-knew how many other girls like her into thinking it was their duty to put their lives on the line more so than any of the rest of humanity, least of all the Council. That was the kind of man Rupert Giles was. No wonder the fucker didn't see anything wrong with marrying a seventeen year-old girl.

Hank couldn't believe how taken in he had been by this guy and his slightly-grayscale-hero-recues-tough-chick-from-troubled-past act. The goddamned bastard was the reason she was getting shot, stabbed and arrested in the first place. Him and his fucking Council. Since she was in the ninth grade for God's sake. And screwing her since the tenth grade, probably, whatever they'd told Joyce, which had to be why this vampire he'd also let screw her (what to get his hands on some old books?) had decided that killing his grownup girlfriend would be the best way to get back at Buffy for whatever else her 'Watcher' had put her up to doing. In fact, if it wasn't for this gang of glorified pimps, Buffy would still be at Hemery High; ruling the school, making the grade, running for Home Coming Queen and getting ready to apply to college. Safe. As safe as anybody could be in this world. How did Joyce not get that? What exactly did she think was going on here?

*****

“We have a problem,” Andrew Giles told Phillip Robson without preamble as he came to stand by his side in the back row of yet another funeral. He'd come directly from the Thursday morning session of the Full Council, traditionally the time for approving already decided matters of logistics. Attendance this year had been even lower than usual. People were still burying their dead. There was an epidemic of don't-give-a-fuck, a disease the Inner Council could not afford to contract, though Robson was definitely feeling a few symptoms. But he made himself pay attention to Andrew's revelations, as was his duty. “It's Weatherby.”

“I'm shocked,” said Robson with tired irony.

“He's exceeded his instructions with Collins,” Andrew explained grimly. “There is security footage. My associates in Los Angeles are not pleased.”

“I imagine not,” Robson agreed grimly. “Where is he now?”

“Still in route,” Andrew explained. “I've directed him to the same airfield through which Heathcliff imports his 'Asian antiquities'.”

“Reasonable,” Robson agreed. “I'll inform the other six. We'll handle matters from here.”

*****

The atmosphere of Winifred Millhouse-Gaudencio's crowded table was getting to be downright pleasant, almost festive, her son Heathcliff noticed dispassionately, now that his father was two days in the ground. It was more that of a family reunion than either a funeral or a Council meeting, all nostalgia and funny stories. Even his ex-wife looked on with benign fondness as his grown sons regaled their younger half brothers with tales of life at Walsington, where they would shortly be enrolling. His younger brother Walter and his children, grown and otherwise, all chimed in with their own opinions and experiences. Well, most of them did.

If no one noticed that Heathcliff and his wife, Malalai, were more subdued or that their daughter, Amal, had barely swallowed a bite or two of lunch and was now only pushing her dessert around with her fork, that was probably for the best. Except that maybe Winifred _had_ noticed her granddaughter’s sudden shyness, because she said, “Well what about you, Dear? Will you be going off to school with your brothers and cousins now they've finally decided to begin enrolling girls this fall?” Winifred nodded fondly at Julia, Walter's youngest. The lanky, freckle-faced fourteen year-old continued to shove food into her face at a near competitive pace, not looking up.

Amal flicked her eyes up in Winifred's direction and then made an effort to smile, which didn't go very well. “I'm going home with Mother,” she mumbled, looking back down at her plate.

“What, home to Afghanistan?” Dinah, Walter's wife, all but gasped, clearly shocked. “ _Now_?”

Malalai started in to her defensive plea that her country was 'finding it's footing' engaging in much needed soul searching for which it would be stronger, more free... eventually. It was an argument with which her husband was so familiar that he could imagine every word she intended to say as well as what she planned to leave out; the contempt in which she held her parents for fleeing in the face of the Russian invasion, the loneliness and alienation she had felt growing up in America, the guilt she carried for not feeling at home in Kajaki or even Kandahar on her return. What had happened to her in medical school as a result of trying to fit in to a culture that encouraged young people, on certain occasions, to get very, very drunk. As it was, she hardly got three words into the part she would have said, would have insisted was the whole story.

“So what!?!” Julia shouted, getting suddenly to her feet, starling everyone. “I'd rather go to Afghanistan than Walsington!” Her father started to scold her, to tell her she didn't mean what she said, didn't understand, but she cut him off sharply. “I do too! I won't be a Watcher!” She insisted, turning to her mother, who was one of only three actual Watchers in the room. “I know what you lot really do, and it's disgusting! I'd rather live in the desert, marry some camel fucker who beats me for reading books, and die from having twenty babies before I'm thirty-five than be a lying, murdering hypocrite like you! I HATE THE COUNCIL AND I HATE YOU!!!” the girl shouted at both her parents and her uncle, running from the room. Her mother quietly followed her while her father sat back down at the table looking shaken and embarrassed but pretending not to be. He wasn't good at pretending, and in fact could hardly put a coherent sentence together when his mother tried to sooth him with conversation. Which, Heathcliff realized, was why his bother was only a Could Have Been; because, in all reality, he couldn't have. 

Relieved as he was that the focus had shifted from Amal, Heathcliff, like everyone else, was uneasy about what Julia had said and appalled by how she had said it. With the recent bloodshed, the catastrophic losses; the bright enameled surface of 'normal', 'modern' life was rubbing away from the institution of the Watching Families. The issue of duty was being forced where there might usually have been a choice. And the survivors, in their grief, were talking, among themselves if to no one else, about things that were best not talked about, both historical and ongoing. The Harrow matter. The Font Affair. Girls who had had to be removed from obstructing parents by having them unjustly taken into Care and by other means of coercion and deception. Even Cruciamentum was being whispered about among people who were not yet sufficiently initiated to be trusted to know of it. It was a dangerous state of affairs for a secret organization, especially one with which so many minors were involved one way and another. Necessary as it was, the sudden trend towards 'encouraging' more young people to enter direct service would cause as well as solve problems. Julia, like most reluctant Candidates, would come around. Most but not all. Rebellion and breaches of security would increase. And they would have to be dealt with. Sometimes in ways that would be difficult for family members to accept. Which would create rifts between and within Houses, just as the Font Affair had.

Malalai's quiet anger was for a different reason. She was a patriot, no mistaking that. If there was one sentiment that she had internalized from her years of unwilling immersion in American culture, it was this motto, 'My Country; Right or Wong.' But she was not a fool and she was not blind. Despite the deliberately ugly language she had chosen to use and her selfish reasons for using it, there was some truth in Julia's assessment of the life Malalai was choosing for her daughter by taking her home to Kandahar under present political, social, and economic conditions.

“Amal should be in school,” she said finally, grimly half an hour later as she and her husband drove with their three children to Virgil's house in Surrey, which they judged to be just distant enough from Winifred and the rest of the clan in Mayfair to guaranty them the privacy they would need tonight. “She is only fourteen.”

Actually two weeks short, Heathcliff thought of reminding her, with bitter amusement. But it wouldn't have be worth it. Under the circumstances, it just wasn't funny. “Then move to London with me,” he said instead. It was a challenge, a flat ultimatum. It was not being stated for the first time.

“I won't abandon my patients when there is no one to replace me,” Malalai replied firmly, also not for the first time. “I won't abandon my country, just because things are difficult right now. And I won't leave Aabirah defenseless and alone in the hands of some man you yourself barely know just because he happens to be a Watcher.”

“Then I don't see that we have much of a choice,” Heathcliff repeated, “Or do you honestly think your cousin can protect you from a hundred miles away when the Religious Police find out that the man you are living with in the sight of God and all of Kandahar is no more to you than your first cousin's son-in-law and your husband's distant cousin? What's going to happen to Julian's son when he can't? What's going to happen to Aabirah!?! I've made my decision,” he added sharply, cutting off debate before she could start on the familiar reiteration of what his other choice could have been, earlier in the week if he had but taken it. Anger flashed in Malalai's eyes, but she turned them to the window and said nothing. 

Heathcliff had had a choice, of course. He could have refused the leadership of his House. He could have returned to Kandahar and continued as Aabirah's Watcher. He could have attempted to arranged for her to marry one of their sons before she became so old that her living with a group of mere cousins of both sexes became truly scandalous, though that time was very near and their sons still very young. And then his House would have suffered under less competent and less agreed upon leadership at exactly the worst possible moment in history. And the Council and the world been the worse for it. Not to mention that he could still have hardly sent Amal away to school in a Western country without making Aabirah's father suspicious of his true feelings about Islam and his level of concern for young women's purity, which would have tempted him to make her a different match and to rethink his hard won acceptance of her destiny. And Aabirah would have been lost to the Council. 

Heathcliff glanced in the rear-view mirror at Amal. His heart swelled with regret, sympathy and affection for his daughter, who was quietly attending to this whole conversation, eyes darting between her parents' oblique profiles as they discussed and decided her future without consulting her. This wasn't the kind of father he had expected to be, growing up first with his mother and then at Walsington, seeing his father the odd weekend or holiday. He'd imagined his someday, intact family being different, better, kinder. Even after he had failed once at that, he'd still thought he could get it right on the second go. Love and experience would make it possible. But he'd been kidding himself. He had the same duty, the same prior commitment to the Cause as his father. And so did Amal. 

*****

So lunch. Yeah. They had lunch. Hank methodically attacked his meal, a scowl on his face, barely tasting it. The women talked with Giles in low whispers, lapping up his all-knowing answers to their every occult question, as credulous as little children, which was pretty close to the truth in two out of three cases and, as far as Hank could tell, might as well have been in the other.

“Well, I'm just glad you guys are alright,” Buffy said as Joyce described their ordeal on the train one more time in even greater detail. “All of you,” she added, squeezing Mitzie's hand, trying to make her feel less deflated, terrified, and alone than she clearly felt.

“I... shouldn't even be here,” Mitzie mumbled, looking away. Great, now Buffy was thinking exactly what Joyce had thought. Giles too, probably. Jesus, did _Mitzie_ think he'd actually brought her here for sex? A girl half his age? At a time like this? How long exactly would it be until his reputation recovered from his ex-wife's suspicions and the rumors she had caused to spread in his workplace a couple of years back with her 'subtle' inquiries that she still denied making? 

“What I don't understand is how that thing knew who we were,” Hank groused. “Got any theories about that, Sherlock?”

“He knew _me_ ,” Joyce explained in an offhand way, as if it were unimportant. “The leader, I met him once in Sunnydale. You'd remember," she said to Giles conversationally. "At parent-teacher night.” Where you were the teacher, you son-of-a-bitch, and you were the parent, you marshmallow, Hank was busy thinking when he noticed that Buffy's eyes had widened to twice their normal size and she and Giles were exchanging a look. “Was this, per chance, a very, very blond vampire?” the Englishman asked Joyce in his very-worried-but-making-a-drama-out-of-'trying-to-sound-casual' way. Joyce hesitated and stammered in the affirmative, adding that he had had Harmony Kendall, a now undead classmate of Buffy's, with him.

“Spike,” Buffy concluded bitterly.

“Spike,” her husband agreed darkly. Joyce nodded.

Mitzie, apparently the only person at the table besides Hank to which the name meant nothing, looked from one to another of her companions nervously. “Is that bad?”

*****

_Neither the growling nor the storm stopped. They merged, came to have been one thing all along, the noise of the universe. Spike was the universe and Willow was trapped in him, pinned beneath his weight as he slowly drew the life out of her. He spoke in her head in her mother's voice as he drained her more than dry, “Willow Dear, I know you can give me more than that!”_

Willow sat up startled in the dark and almost clawed a desperate handful out of the face hovering over her before she realized it was only Sheila. The other, not-so-threatening, not-so-important Sheila. “Hey, Willow, you okay?” Sheila asked with casual concern. “You were making weird noises and stuff.” It was only then that Willow noticed her cheeks were wet. If she didn't get up and pee soon, her sheets would be too.

“Close your eyes,” she advised/joked embarrassedly. It was too dark to really see anything anyway, but she still felt extra weird; exposed, but also disconnected, lightheaded. The skin on the back of her neck—or just below it really, between her shoulder blades—was more than prickly; it was itchy, slightly painful. Willow's mouth and eyes were very, very dry. After she had washed her hands with soap and dried them on her jumpsuit for lack of a dependably clean towel, she spent what seemed like at least five minutes with the tap open guzzling water from her cupped hands, and maybe another minute splashing water on her face, which felt flushed.

Sheila sat in her bunk and watched her, eyes glittering oddly in the dark. They must have been catching a reflection from some little light somewhere, but if so, Willow couldn't figure out where it was. Probably because she was so sleepy. In fact, all this time she had been leaning on the sink for support, and as she let go to walk back to her bunk, she realized she was not so very steady on her feet... about a second before she stumbled and fell to the floor. The concrete was cool against her cheek and she was vaguely displeased to lose that source of comfort as Sheila lifted her easily in her arms and carried her back to her bunk.

When Willow awoke again, a few minutes—or hours—later, Sheila was at her side to help her to the toilet and the sink and to put her back to bed afterwards. That might have happened two or three more times, maybe four. It was still dark when Willow awoke to that same concrete coolness and the sound of Sheila summoning the guards. “I don't know,” Sheila said, both a shrug and a smirk in her voice, though obviously she had cared enough to say something, “I just woke up and found her on the floor.”

*****

“Heart attack,” Chief Detention Deputy Sparks declared, slapping down the Autopsy Report on Mr. Claybrooke in front of Captain Bonner triumphantly. “Pure and simple. Which is exactly what his lawyer... Mr....” Sparks checked the report, “...MacDonald, said when he called for help.” Sure, Bonner thought, at exactly the same time that his partner in crime (whose real name they _still_ didn't know) happened to be meeting with Ms. Morgan, the other lawyer from the same law firm—the same tall-building, weird-reputation law firm— who just happened to be seen an hour later on the hospital security footage entering the room of the other surviving member of their gang. Probably a coincidence, just like the fact that John Doe Number Two had suddenly developed bleeding in his brain and was no longer expected to regain consciousness. And the fact that Ms. Morgan had boarded a plane for London in the few hours between the time that Claybrooke had died and when the FBI had swarmed in and taken over the Ericson case. Which meant that when Claybrooke had been clinging to MacDonald for dear life and gasping, 'my God, they've killed me,' he'd just been confused, right?

“Alright,” Bonner said, feigning bored, professional disinterest, “Thank you for your time.” Whatever was going on here, it was obviously darker than anything Sparks could or would shed any light on. Like Bonner, Sparks knew when he was in over his heads. Unlike Bonner, he also knew when to swim for shore.

*****

“It's a good thing Sheila found you when she did,” Dr. Wilkinson informed Willow seriously. Willow nodded, still a little hazy as to exactly what had happened, still a little embarrassed to ask. Especially since everyone seemed to know and seemed to think it was obvious. Obvious and somehow her fault. It probably was, in fact, Willow realized, though not for the reasons that everyone seemed to think. It probably had everything to do with that sleep spell, the one she still couldn't break. She would have to try to discuss that with her 'mom' again when she arrived, as everyone kept assuring her that she would at any moment.

Which was exactly when they told her she could have breakfast, ironically enough, considering the main theme of everyone's 'words of wisdom'. “I know that the food in the JDC may not be the most appetizing in the world,” Dr. Wilkinson pressed, in the same lecturing tone that everyone was using, “but hypoglycemia can be a very serious thing, and so can anemia. It's important for you to eat regular, balanced meals and healthy snacks and to take all supplements as prescribed, in order to keep your blood sugar and your iron count up. Besides which, you should never allow yourself to become this seriously under weight, especially now.”

“Okay,” Willow managed to mumble, tired of pointing out that she had been eating every scrap of food she could get her hands on, and had not been prescribed any supplements.

“Another important thing to keep in mind is that you ought to be upfront with the JDC staff about all of your medical conditions so that they can get you the care and nutritional support you need.” Again Willow nodded and murmured assent. “Just remember, they are there to help you, but they can't meet your needs if you hide them from everyone. And keep in mind that early and consistent prenatal care is the best prediction of a safe and healthy pregnancy for both mother and baby. And open communication with your mom and other family members is key to building and maintaining a support system, which is something all new mothers need, at any age.”

Willow frowned, puzzled. “Well, I'll keep all of that in mind if I ever get pregnant,” she agreed, since Wilkinson seemed to be concerned about that for some reason, maybe because they saw pregnant teens from the JDC a lot?

“Willow,” the doctor gently scolded her. “We know about your pregnancy. That's one of the first things we test for in this type of situation with a girl your age.”

“Wait, what are you talking about?” Willow asked, suddenly a bit more alert, but maybe more confused than ever by what she was hearing. “That's impossible,” she heard herself saying, even as she was in the process of realizing that it actually wasn't, “you're test must be wrong.” What was today, the twenty-third? Thirty-four days after the start of her last menstrual period. One—very long—week after she had had sex with Xander, using the worlds most notoriously unreliable birth control strategy. While also using a spell that seriously altered all of her metabolic processes. Which probably meant that those thirty-four days were more like forty or forty-five. More like six or seven weeks than just five.

And therefore, it actually made total sense when Dr. Wilkinson said, “No, Willow, the test is not wrong. We confirmed it using ultra-sound.” What still didn't make sense at all though was when she added, “Willow, you are just over eighteen weeks pregnant.”

*****

“No!” Giles insisted fervently, but quietly enough that he hoped their guests (who had taken up residence in a suite of adjoining rooms that had temporarily been made a part of Giles and Buffy's rented accommodation, under their protection for invitation purposes) wouldn't overhear. “Buffy, you _cannot_ go to Paris!” His voice was tensed, hard, shaking. _Forbidding_.

“Why not?” she demanded, her voice equally hard and quiet. But in response to the look he gave her, her speech took on a more pleading, though still strident quality. “Spike killed Kendra,” she reminded him. “He raped Willow, or that's what it amounts to. I can't just sit here while he takes over a major European capital and declares open season on human tourists!”

“Buffy, even if I felt it were wise to confront Spike at this time, on his own territory, surround by a minimum of thirty minions,” he reminded her, “You cannot go to Paris because you have no passport. You are only out on bond. At least wait until—”

“He kills another hundred people and makes them into an honest to God army?” Buffy cut him off sarcastically. “Giles, you said it yourself, 'through the dark art of bureaucracy all things are possible'? If the Council can 'kill us with the stroke of a pen', surely they can also get me a passport and/or sneak me out of the country for a couple of days.”

“A couple of days!?!” Giles scoffed, forgetting for a moment to be quiet. Remembering suddenly, dropping his harangue to a raspy, indignant whisper, he added, “Need I remind you that you spent the better part of six months trying—unsuccessfully, I might add—to kill Spike back in Sunnydale? The only thing that's going to be different in Paris is that the territory is less familiar to you, more familiar to him, and illegal for you even to set foot in, so you can't even ask anyone for help without fear of being arrested. Besides, you've got your first appointment with Dr. Altwerp tomorrow and a status hearing a week from Monday. Trust me, Buffy, now is not the time for Spike. Besides, the Council, without whose intervention you might easily be rearrested, have forbidden you to violate your bond without express instructions from your Watcher to do so!”

“Fine,” Buffy fumed “I'll just sit here and do nothing while innocent people are condemned to fates worse than death, Council's orders(!) Now I seriously feel like one of the family.”

Giles opened his mouth to make some scathingly superior response to that; Buffy was sure of it, already getting angry in anticipation. Except that the phone rang. She started to reach for it. But the only person who was likely to be calling her was in the next room. As Giles picked up the phone and exchanged stiffly 'cordial' greetings with whatever Watcher had called, Buffy quietly slipped away to help her mother unpack. She had things to discuss with her anyway. Besides, she was tired of listening to Watchers and their crap.

“Well, I've found you at last,” Julian said primly, almost but not quite snidely, a bit too above it to be snide, in fact.

“Yes,” Giles replied dryly, “and me so cleverly hidden.”

“Well,” said Julian, his voice becoming a bit more crisp, “I had assumed you might have taken some more reasonably priced accommodation.”

“I am required to serve without compensation, not without maintenance,” Giles reminded him stiffly.

“Yes...” Julian agreed in a tone that suggested he, not Giles, was winning the point, which was true, “without compensation and without question.”

“Or complaint,” Giles reminded him brimming with grim amusement. “What do you need?”

Julian's laugh was a bit too dry, too knowing, too cruelly amused for Giles's taste when he answered, “I require the assistance of an adult male relative who is not too publicly associated with me, ideally one who has a name he doesn't commonly use, and who can read, write, and speak fluently in Parsi. Well, actually, not so much I as my son.”

*****

When the guards came to get Wesley, to tell him that his astronomical cash bond had at last been posted by a mysterious messenger and that there was a long black car from a service waiting to take him to his benefactor, he wondered if he should have acted surprised, but he didn't bother. What if it was suspicious? He half hoped they wouldn't let him go. He signed out under his new 'Muslim' name (Alim Abd Al-Rashid) despite being booked in under his legal name, but nobody raised an eyebrow at that either. 

Of course, as Wesley was well aware, there was no real reason why a Muslim convert had to change his name. Heathcliff Gaudencio certainly hadn't. But any idiot who would listen to a cleric that suggested kidnapping an MP from a public gathering in what amounted to a harebrained publicity scheme certainly would have. And somehow or other, the rumors that this was how he had managed to unwittingly set off a massacre were already in wide circulation among the law enforcement community. Never mind that nothing had as yet been proven against him even to investigative, let alone adjudicative, standards. The confession he was to mail to his father from Lahore International Airport should take care of that.

“I just got back from driving Malalai and the children out to Father's,” Heathcliff apologized when he was five minutes late meeting the hired car in a parking garage a few blocked from the lockup.

“I'm starting to feel like a shuttle driver,” he joked, as they got into his unassuming, practical sedan. “Although, we won't be heading back just yet because I'm still waiting on a call to tell me your first set of identity and travel documents are ready. So, since we've got to hang around London for a bit regardless, that will give us time for a nice long chat about our expectations, and if you swear not to tell my wife, maybe even one small drink.”

Wesley wanted to have the sangfroid to make some cavalier response, like, 'only if you promise not to tell mine,' but he didn't. “I think I could stand to kill an entire bottle,” he informed Gaudencio more or less seriously instead, “for the road, as it were.”

“I'm afraid that won't be possible,” Heathcliff informed him with grim sympathy. At least Wesley supposed it was sympathy, either that or he was feeling a bit ill. “Malalai is Rajab's first cousin,” he apologized, “and although she is aware of the motives for your very recent conversion she would not sit still for Aabirah—or any of the women in our family—being married off to someone who isn't willing to convert in good faith... erm so to speak, to an Islamic life, regardless of his motivation for doing so. In fact, if you ever need to ask what's haram or halal in a given situation, she's probably your best source. Just remember, if you aren't fooling her, you aren't fooling him.”

“Fooling who, Allah?” Wesley asked, confused by such an odd idea.

Heathcliff laughed and gave him the kind of slightly worried look he was a little too used to getting, usually without knowing why. “Rajab,” the Seatholder clarified. “If he doesn't buy your conversion, this is all for nothing, and that is exactly what your life will be worth as well.”

“Right,” Wesley something between gasped and whispered, swallowing hard. “Of course.”

“Which is why I suggest that you let Malalai give you as much guidance as you need,” Gaudencio reiterated.

“Well but how much opportunity will I really have to interact with her?” Wesley asked/pointed out primly, throwing up walls of superiority with which to defend himself. “Not that I think I'll really need any pointers to pass as a nascent convert, mind you, given my years of academic study of The Faith, but I was given to understand that I would be leaving the country in pretty short order.”

“You'll be taking the train to Calais in the morning and flying out of  Caen la Mer tomorrow afternoon,” Heathcliff confirmed, looking quite ill indeed. After a moment's hesitation (which might have been due to digestive discomfort for all Wesley could tell) he added, “Malalai and Amal will join you in Morocco tomorrow night, and from there the three of you will continue on to Lahore and then to Kandahar.” 

“Good lord, why?” Wesley gasped, startled, and following that, deeply puzzled.

“Watch your language,” was all Heathcliff said at first, and that rather crossly. He brooded for a moment. There was nothing else you could call it. Finally, he spoke again, sounding very grave. “As Watchers we are frequently called upon to do things that are very difficult,” he said. “Sometimes that means doing things that are physically taxing or dangerous, such as training the Slayer and even fighting at her side. Sometimes it means doing things that are emotionally difficult like burying your Slayer or being separated from your family....” 

Wesley had the uneasy feeling that the tasks were being listed in ascending order of difficulty, that he was about to be asked to do something shockingly unpleasant. Then again, he reminded himself, taking a little comfort, he already knew that he was here to do several shockingly unpleasant things: i.e. moving to Afghanistan, confessing to a terrible and embarrassingly stupid crime, involving a teenage girl—his Potential Slayer no less—in an arranged marriage. In fact, it was rather a relief to suppose that Gaudencio appreciated how difficult these things actually were. “And sometimes,” he concluded, seeming to confirm Wesley's thoughts, “we are called upon to do morally or spiritually difficult things, things that may harm innocent people, even people we care about very deeply, in order to achieve some important end in service of the Greater Good. Do you understand that, I mean truly understand it?”

“Of course,” Wesley assured him, his own voice involuntarily softening in response to the realization that Gaudencio seemed to be in genuine emotional pain. He obviously cared very deeply for this girl, Aabirah, and wanted to be reassured that he was doing the right thing. Which he was, Wesley suddenly realized. Quite apart from his own difficulties with the situation, when one had a Slayer or Potential Slayer in his care there was one overarching truth that he must never forget, for her own good as well as the fate of the world, a truth which Wesley now stated firmly, encouragingly, and with sincere conviction, “We all do what we must to fulfill our sacred mission, regardless of any personal cost to ourselves. The mission is what matters.”

“Good,” said Gaudencio, seeming both resolved and relieved. “You don't know how glad I am to hear you say that. Because I need you to do something very important both for me personally and for the Council before you can go to Afghanistan and marry Aabirah, something essential to your ability to function as her Watcher and to give her the support she needs.”

“Of course,” Wesley assured him, more puzzled than ever and becoming quite apprehensive once more, but still resolved, still willing to serve. “I'll do anything that needs to be done,” he assured his superior with the extravagant firmness of a very self-satisfied martyr. Once again, Gaudencio was quiet for a moment. One might dare to say 'pensive'. “Erm... if I might ask...” Wesley began to worry aloud in concert with the worry that he could feel creeping back over his face, trying to sound casual, embarrassed by the knowledge that he clearly didn't, “what is it exactly that you need me to do?”

Heathcliff sighed deeply and looked away. He might only have needed to keep both eyes on traffic as he pulled from the street into the car park behind a small, out of the way pub, as he was now doing, Wesley reasoned. There was no reason to suppose that his orders were so unpleasant that he couldn't even look his subordinate in the eyes and given them. “I think I could use that drink now,” the older Watcher said as he put the car in park and engaged the break, keeping his eyes trained on his hand as it performed these very important tasks.

"For the love of— _Allah_!" Wesley started to gasps, then corrected himself, embarrassed for more faults than one. More calmly, but also more warily he asked, “Mr. Gaudencio, you aren't by any chance trying to work up the nerve to tell me to kill someone?”

Gaudencio choked on a startled noise of deep shock that sputtered it's way from a cough to a laugh. He shook his head, smiling at last in a way that was somehow both sheepish and mildly pitying. He patted the younger man on the back with almost fatherly affection. “No, I'm really not,” he said, still holding on the the steering wheel with one hand, shaking with laughter, dabbing at his eyes with his handkerchief. “Nauzubillah. I'm trying to ask you to marry my daughter.”

*****

_ Ting-tling-ling  _ the tiny bell on the glass and metal door tinkled. “Can I help you,” asked an ebony skinned woman with large, honey-brown eyes, 'Xenia', according to her plastic name tag. 

“I hope so,” said Cordelia, just as politely, turning up the wattage on her smile, tilting her head slightly, “I'm looking for someone who works here, Xander Harris?”

The woman looked doubtful. “I don't know anyone by that name,” she said after a moment. Cordelia was not sure that she was telling the truth, but she also wasn't sure that she wasn't. Either way, it was just a tad more evidence (on top of the fact that almost a week of pretty steady observation by Aura and various other cheerleader-leaders had turned up no sign of him) that Xander really wasn't working here anymore. A new employee was not likely to know much about a former employee unless he had been enough trouble that she didn't want to get involved with anything to do with him. She'd just have to try Mr. Garth one more time on the way to school and hope he picked-up, Cordelia thought as she bought a pack of gum for an excuse to be there, already thinking about checking her email. 

While her money changed hands, Cordelia's fingers brushed against those of the clerk for a moment. There was a sudden wave of... something. A jolt? A fever? Something indescribably intense. Horrifying images flashed through Cordelia's mind. Images of the clerk. As a child. As a victim. As... the opposite of that. And as a vampire. Rushes and stills of idyllic and horrific scenes. Of simple pleasures in rustic settings and of vile deeds done amidst disconcerting opulence. Images of a bleak past and what she thought must be an even bleaker future tangled together in Cordelia's head, all in period costumes that were not at all right for the twentieth century or Southern California.

“Are you alright, Miss?” 'Xenia' asked worriedly, a dislocated moment later, as Cordelia found that she was clinging to the sales counter to stay on her feet and that her heart, which had been hammering, was just beginning to slow down.

Cordelia's scalp tingled. The patch of dry and flaky where a puddle of iridescent demon ooze had gotten under her skin a couple of days earlier itched like crazy. “I'm fine,” she mumbled distractedly, leaving the pack of gum on the counter as she bolted for her car and hurried to school.

*****

“Let me make sure I've understood you correctly,” Wesley repeated, clearly very honestly shocked. He hadn't touched his shot of whiskey, though Heathcliff had downed his in one gulp almost before the barmaid had set it down. “You want me to _marry_ your thirteen-year-old daughter, in exchange for a couple of million pounds worth of real estate, cash and annuities—which my _father_ has generously agreed to provide, all untraceable to him of course—and to... to...” he dropped his voice to a harsh whisper leaning in towards his companion, “to _consummate_ this 'marriage' tonight? Here in London?” As unhappy as he had been with the idea of marrying Aabirah, despite his having understood, within reason that she was likely to be very young, that aspect of the situation hadn't struck him quite so concretely until Amal had gotten involved.

“In Surrey,” Heathcliff corrected him bruskly, defensively, taking Wesley's glass and draining it himself.

“Oh, well, then, in _that_ case—” Wesley started to reply sarcastically.

“This is what needs to happen,” Heathcliff cut him off abruptly, angrily. “It isn't as though I were turning cartwheels over it, you know. Aabirah needs stability, continuity, companionship, _family_. She needs to be with people whom she already knows and trusts who can reassure her that it's alright to trust _you_. Some kind of half measure, some sham paper marriage is only going to make everyone involved feel _insecure_ as though none of this is real, _especially_ Amal. She needs to know that you've committed, that you can be depended upon not to back out, and so does Malalai.”

“But surly—” Wesley tried to object again, “I give you my word as a Watcher—”

“I am entrusting you with virtually everything I own outside of England,” Heathcliff cut him off sharply, keeping his voice low, “with the conduct of all of my important business outside the Council, and with the _lives_ of my wife, my daughter, and my Potential Slayer!” His voice became lower still, and much, much colder, “And I will not have you jeopardize my family by sending Aabirah crying to her mother that whatever you want with her and Amal is some strange thing other than marriage.” Wesley's mouth snapped shut. There was nothing he could say. Unless he really was prepared to defy his father (and the Council) and refuse the duty of his family's destiny—not to mention spending substantial time in prison—he was well and truly stuck. And so were his two little brides.

Wesley almost ventured to ask why, if he was to do what was being asked of him, should he not at least be allowed to do it in Morocco or Lahore, where it would not have been unlawful, or at least would have been more difficult to prove so. He didn't ask. Besides the feeling that it would be straining at gnats and swallowing camels, that it would be an unmanly instance on his own safety without regard to virtue, he suddenly knew the answer. He was meant to be well and truly stuck. It wasn't Amal or her mother who felt they needed reassurance of his level of commitment, or more accurately leverage to insure it. It was the Council. It was his father.


	6. Get Used to Disappointment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As certain Watchers prepare for the secret wedding that will join two powerful Houses and (hopefully) solve a multitude of other problems in the process, the young bride tries to hold on the hope for the future, the Slayer and other important players have their own secrets and plans, Willow faces a shocking betrayal, and Hank and Mitzie are definitely not on a date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part II: Missing and Exploited Children

London, U.K., Thursday, April 23, 1998

“ _Some ritual_?” Hank repeated, astounded by Buffy's explanation of where her husband had gone. 

“Yeah,” Buffy confirmed, like it was the most normal thing in the world to say, like she was irritated at him for expect more of an explanation. “And some errands they had to do to get ready for it,” she added impatiently. “Peter came in a cab and picked him up a few minutes ago. He said not to expect him for dinner, that he'd be home late.” For a moment, Hank thought that she actually did seem worried after all, but only for a moment. “Honestly,” Buffy added, with steadfastly casual cheer, “Mom and I have some serious shopping to do this afternoon, so it's probably just going to be you and Mitzie for while. Why don't you take her out, show her the city.”

“Because we don't have that kind of relationship,” Hank snapped, losing his temper a little. “I brought her here for work. Nothing more than that. The only reason we are sharing a suite, even one this large and crowded—with your mother I might add—is so she doesn't get killed by vampires! In fact, I'm putting her on the first flight home after our meeting on Monday. Which is less than twenty-four hours before she would have been going back all along!”

“No... I... of course...” Buffy stammered, embarrassed, “No, I didn't mean... I mean I didn't really think....” she paused. “I didn't think,” she apologized more firmly, “I'm sorry.” Then, after a beat, she added, “It still might be a good idea to show her around. I doubt if she wants to be left alone right now, and you know how you get if you stay cooped up for too long. Besides, we aren't that far from Paris. I think I'd feel better if we all traveled in pairs from now on. Safety in numbers.”

*****

Amal sat alone on the bed in what she guessed was her grandparents' old bedroom, staring out the window into the back garden. She folded her legs under her and hugged a pillow to her chest, feeling sad and bored and scared, all at the same time. And foolish for feeling all of the above. Her father hadn't even been able to look at her when he'd told her to bring her things up here, not with her mother standing there looking all stoic and disapproving. Everyone else was one floor down, her parents in the guest room, her brothers in Dad and Uncle Walter's old rooms. And here she was all by herself at the top of the house in this huge master bedroom with it's en suite bath and big fireplace and lovely view of the garden, nothing else up here but Grandfather Virgil's study across the hall. It was the room her parents should have had, except that tonight she was the one who needed it. For privacy. Privacy for having sex.

That was the expectation. Her father had made that one hundred percent clear when he'd come upstairs to 'have a word with her' before bailing her intended husband out of jail. The conversation had been frank and one-sided, but at least it was an improvement over nobody talking to her at all. For the past three days, everyone had been discussing her future as if she wasn't there. Her father had told her mother that if she was going back to Afghanistan with this 'Wesley' person who was marrying Aabirah, then Amal would have to be married to him too, and that was that. Even her mom hadn't actually asked her if that was what she wanted to do, only argued that she shouldn't have to do it, then given in and agreed that she was going to after all. And then the Big Talk from Dad. Nothing along the lines of don't worry, everything will be alright. No, it was a reprise of the 'this is what it means to be a Watcher' Talk she'd been getting since she was eight, plus a little bit of added material about her responsibility for Aabirah and the importance of continuing her studies in his absence. Followed by instructions on how to 'handle' her new husband.

“According to Julian, he's terribly emotional,” her father had explained. “Sentimental. And just a bit of a coward. We don't want him disappearing when he gets off the plane in Morocco. And from what his father tells me, he's a great deal less likely to run out on a person than a promise. He _wants_ to be a man of his word, but with a commitment this... difficult, it may take more than words to bind him to the obligation, do you understand?” At first Amal had only nodded. Honestly she'd _assumed_ getting married would involve having sex, if not today or tomorrow, certainly soon. Maybe sooner than she otherwise might have liked. But her father was not content to leave it at that. “I need a little more of answer than that,” he'd said, quite a bit more gently than he usually spoke when instructing her on something Watcherly and important, almost apologetically even. His tone rankled her somehow.

“You want me to fuck him,” she'd replied glibly, having a sudden, uncharacteristic impulse to disconcert her father, or maybe to make him mad. “So he'll feel too guilty to back out.”

For a moment her father had indeed seemed poised to respond with harsh words. Then he had paused, nodded and pronounced very definitely, “And don't take no for an answer.” And that was the end of the conversation. He'd stood up and walked out. As far as he was concerned, she was ready to be married.

It was weird, knowing what was about to happen but still not really being able to feel like it was definitely happening. Amal kept feeling like something might change, some last minute twist of fate, and she might get back the life she'd expected to have a week ago after all. The life she'd only ever talked about with Aabirah, alone in their room at night. Going back to America. Going to collage. Having a job that impressed people and made them listen to her. Meeting someone. Falling in love with someone. Someone who was all hers. Which was the one part of all of that that she knew for a fact Aabirah wanted too and that it had seemed like even she might be able to have.

Things were different in Afghanistan than they were in St. Louis. Amal understood that. And mostly it didn't bother her. Much. Or anyway it hadn't until lately. Until things had started getting really bad. It wasn't that weird for a man to have two wives, Amal tried to reason with herself. And at least it meant she and Aabirah would never be alone, they'd be together. And plenty of women she'd met from families like that seemed to love their husbands and each other. But if you were talking about _romance_ and the _falling in_ kind of love, it was hard to imagine anyone less likely to fall in love with than some guy your parents had picked out for you sight unseen. Especially if he also happened to be doing it—or at least eventually expecting to—with your best friend.  Or more accurately, your eleven year-old cousin. 

*****

“Ummm, are you kidding me? Eww(!)” Harmony proclaimed, gesturing in the general direction of the flayed skins lying on the table in the basement apartment of the two Triophiles their minions had just dusted.

“Harm,” Spike pointed out, irritatedly, “we are all walking around wearing dead bodies already. Anyway, that's not the point. I don't think for a minute they're planning to wear these. They'd just dry out and flake off, hardly better than a blanket, never mind the smell. No, they wanted these to study or... experiment on or something. And they've got more than one of their lot gathering them up too.”

“Oh,” she said, smiling and shrugging. “Okay then. Do you want to go get someone to eat?” She began walking back towards the sewer access tunnel their victims had so generously maintained.

“Harm,” Spike all but growled. He was trying to be patient, he really was, but did she have to be quite so bloody stupid? “Pet,” he added forcing a gentler tone, “All of this _means_ something. I need to talk it through with someone, can't you just...” but how could he explain what he needed if it wasn't already obvious? He never would have had to explain it to Drusilla. She had always just been there, right there with him while he was figuring things out. She'd always known exactly how to help. Even when she hadn't had a single buggering clue what was going on around her, even when she'd been hallucinating or having visions or whatever, at least she'd been there to listen. To bounce thoughts off of, like a mirror, until he'd been able to see his own mind clearly. But without revealing anything to anyone else. Someone who might betray him, might have their own agenda, as most worthwhile minions usually did. She was like a second self. Sometimes he needed that.

“Do you want me to go get Reggie?” Harmony offered cheerfully. “For you to talk to about this icky skin stuff?”

Spike closed his eyes and pressed his fingertips to his temples, shaking his head slightly. “Yeah,” he whispered bleakly, not that she seemed to notice, “go do that.”

*****

“I just can't,” Mitzie apologized. “It's too... Even if it _is_ daylight, it's not early. We could get stuck somewhere. I don't feel safe out there without Buffy.”

Hank nodded. He understood. He really did. But he was restless. “Tell you what,” he said. “Let's go downstairs and do the whole 'afternoon tea' thing. Then we can have a couple of drinks and eventually dinner. We can make an evening of it and never leave the hotel.”

“Alright,” Mitzie agreed nervously though (in a way that made Hank a bit nervous) not at all hesitantly, “But at the first sign of trouble we high tail it back to the suite.”

“It's a deal,” Hank agreed, very deliberately extending his hand for her to shake, in a 'this is not a date' sort of way. Which became an awkward, ambiguous 'is this some kind of weird flirting after all' mess when he tried for the full hand and she assumed the half and then they both switched in the middle, each trying to accommodate the other. Great, now she was giggling. Hank put his hands back in his pockets and tried not to look frustrated or mad, but she made a disappointed face at him anyway. “My mother always said half handshakes were for half people,” he not quite apologized. Mitzie didn't seem quite sure how to take that. Even Hank wasn't exactly sure what he meant to convey by saying exactly that now, but at least Mitzie wasn't still eying him like she believed and hoped they might be on the verge of falling in love. Oddly, Hank found that he didn't feel quite as pleased about that as he would have thought, or would have liked.

*****

“We're not really going shopping, are we?” Joyce finally asked, as they switched subway trains for the third time, each previous train having taken them to an increasingly seedy neighborhood.

“Nope,” Buffy answered laconically.

Joyce sighed and shook her head. “Just tell me we aren't going to Paris,” she pleaded, only nine tenths jokingly.

“No, nothing quite that bad,” Buffy assured her smiling a little nervously. “I just thought that while Giles is off with his Watcher pals doing whatever that would give us a little quality mother daughter time to...” her causal tone strained only a little but Joyce's trained ear picked it up and she readied herself to follow that sentence wherever it was about to turn, “visit Ethan Rayne at the address I got from a guy Grampa Wallace knows at Interpol and have a chat with him about being on his best behavior now that the Council has said they are going to hold Giles responsible for whatever he does?” Buffy smiled more nervously still, in that guiltily innocent way of hers.

Shaking her head even more, Joyce gave her a look of grudgingly adoring incredulity. Her, 'yep, that's my one and only Buffy' look. “By which you mean you're going to physically intimidate and/or threaten to kill one of your spouse's oldest friends in order to keep him out of trouble, hoping of course that he never finds out about it,” she pointed out incisively. She didn't even have to say, 'now where have I heard of something like that before.'

“I know what you're thinking,” Buffy complained/argued/admitted, “but this is nothing like... what he did to Xander. It's not!” she insisted in the face of Joyce's mildly amused, highly skeptical, vaguely censorious, slightly-raised-eyebrow-including look. “In the first place, Ethan is evil. And they're not even friend's anymore. And I'm worried about what Ethan is going to do unilaterally, not what he's going to talk Giles into doing, so it's not a trust issue at all, plus it's not a sex thing obviously, so... Oh, _and_ , this is something he might even ask me to do if it wasn't for the whole 'Guy Code: fight my own battles' thing, so really all I'm doing is saving him embarrassment by not mentioning something we both know needs to be done, so he doesn't have to ask. It's just... polite like waiting for him to open the door and letting him pay for stuff.”

Joyce didn't exactly say anything in response to that but her trying-to-be-a-stern frown and her very slight eye roll, accompanied by the tell tale crossing of the arms, made it perfectly clear what she wasn't saying. She also didn't bother asking why Buffy had brought her along on this mission. Obviously she was officiously rescuing her from having to spend the evening alone with Hank and Mitzie. As if the three of them couldn't manages to be civilized for one evening... which after the hours they had spent together on the plane and given the stressful state they were just relaxing into post mortal terror, might actually be true. She also didn't bring up any of the things she wasn't telling Buffy that were at least as important as anything Buffy wasn't telling Giles. Instead of any of that, she made a show of examining the subway map on the wall of the train as an excuse to turn her face away and avoid scrutiny. “Is that our stop coming up next?” she asked ingenuously, knowing perfectly well that it was.

The two women exited the train at the next station, 'minding the gap' as they were incessantly instructed, and walked up the street. Buffy pulled a scrap of paper from her coat pocket, looked at it and found the right building pretty quickly. “Now this guy can do actual magic she warned, plus he's a Grade A creep, so stick close to me and follow my lead.” Joyce nodded and follow Buffy into the building and up a flight of stairs. “Stand back,” Buffy warned and positioned herself to kick in the door. Even with the advanced notice, Joyce winced and maybe even jumped a little as the lock snapped and the door crashed inward. Buffy leapt through the doorway without a moment's hesitation.

Ethan Rayne sat at the tiny counter between the living room part and the kitchen part of the room, sipping a cup of tea. “Oh Bugger,” he cursed in what sounded like only moderate annoyance, getting to his feet. He was wearing a black and silver silk robe that fell only to mid thigh and was belted loosely around the waist, showing most of his cleanly waxed legs and chest.

“Seriously?” Buffy asked of no one in particular. Then she got a much bigger shock than the extent of Ethan's vanity. With a blurred hand gesture and a mumbled incantation, the chaos mage flickered once like a hologram in a sci-fi movie and disappeared.

*****

No, it can't be, Willow found herself thinking yet again. Eighteen weeks? But yet again she realized that, no, actually maybe it could. Because, if she had been right all along about the time ratios of her sleep spell, considering all the sleeping she'd been doing... but no, she did a little quick math and even her most liberal estimations could only get her up to about ten weeks. There would have had to have been something else in the mix, something that would have more or less doubled the rate of her gestational development relative to the already rapid pace at which she was living her life. Some kind of magical... well... something from somewhere. But the only remotely magical person with whom she had had any contact in the last week was—

The door to the hospital room opened. “Blessed be!” Ms. Waddle chirped, disconcertingly looking and sounding everything and nothing like Sheila Rosenberg. Then her smile froze on her face in a way that seemed much more appropriate to the mask she wore. There was deep and sudden apprehension in her eyes and the sing song warble of her voice faltered at little as she took in Willow's angry, horrified expression. “Aren't you... feeling well dear?” she asked very, very nervously indeed.

“Gee, 'Mom',” Willow nearly spat at her bitterly, “I feel just fine. I mean, why wouldn't I. I mean, you know, other than the fact that I'm suddenly almost five months pregnant?”

They were alone in the room for the moment. Seeming to steel her resolve, Ms. Waddle closed the door. “You're angry,” she stated the obvious. “So why don't you tell me... how you're seeing this and we'll work on how to get past it.”

“Get past it?” Willow demanded. “You tricked me into eating those crackers, which nearly killed me, and now I'm so pregnant that the hospital says it's 'against their policy' to do an 'elective' abortion.  _ Elective! _ Like I wanted any of this! Now I have to go to some place in L.A. apparently for a D&E,  _ if _ I can even get an appointment in time, and  _ if  _ I can get JDC to arrange to transport!!! Which will probably never happen fast enough because I'll be another month pregnant next week, so I'll probably just get there and be told I have to reschedule for a D&X, which they won't be able to do by the time they get to it either!!! Which means basically, you're forcing me to have a baby I don't want and I might just starve to death in the process!!! So that's 'how I see it'; you tell me, how do we 'get past it'!?!”

“Willow,” Ms. Waddle remonstrated, in a please-believe-me kind of voice, “I can see why you might think that, but the crackers where just charmed to help with sleep and nutrition. If I had known—I had no idea there was a chance you might be pregnant, but yes, the interaction of my charm and your spell does seem to have had... unfortunate results. Still, there are worse states than motherhood for developing one's powers as a witch,” she tried to force a segue, to get off the subject of abortion, “and the Coven is here fo—”

“You know what?” Willow cut her off abruptly, “I don't believe you! Listen to yourself; you're _happy_ about this! Are you crazy? I'm seventeen! I don't _want_ to be a mother! And anyways I already have a huge family of rats to take care of, and my Mom! My _real_ Mom. Who by the way would never let something like this happen to me in a million years! I mean, how _dare_ you! _How Dare You!!”_

Willow paused, taking deep, anger controlling breaths. Ms. Waddle wanted to respond but honestly didn't dare. For a moment, Ms. Waddle thought she heard a low, slowly building rumble of thunder as Willow shouted, “We are putting a stop to this!!! You are going to go home to your Coven and find me a spell to make it so this never happened!!! Tonight!!! And don't even think of coming back here without it!!! NOW, GET THE HELL OUT OF MY ROOM!!!!!!”

*****

“We buried Quentin today,” Andrew said matter-of-factly at last. Emma still didn't look up. She lay on her side in the hospital bed facing the wall. “Graham's set to be buried tomorrow.” No response. “I know you're already aware of that,” he went on. “Oliver told me that much.”

Emma turned to face him at last. “ _You_ talked to Oliver?” she said skeptically. Then, with a snort of derisive laughter, turning back toward the wall, “he must be getting truly desperate.”

“He is,” Andrew said calmly. “He thinks you'll be dead in a week the rate you're going. I think less if you keep 'forgetting' how much medication you've taken.”

“And why would talking to you make me want to live?” Emma asked, sounding both worn out and annoyed.

“No reason I can think of,” Andrew admitted, his tone as cordial, as nearly indifferent as before, but somehow not quite as convincing. “But if you're going to die, it seems to me we have one or two things to talk about before you go.”

“What is there to say?” Emma asked the wall.

“I'm sorry,” he said, “that it's been so hard for you. I'm sorry for the things you've had to live with, because I do know what it's like, you know. And I'm sorry that you lost your son.” He did not apologize, Emma noticed for blackmailing her. Or Quentin.

“I don't suppose you'll be seeing much of Rupert anymore,” she observed coolly.

“Well I'd say that's my mess to sort out,” Andrew reminded her.

“Quentin,” she said, changing the subject, but sounding so pained, so genuinely needing to know, that he could hardly fault her for it, “was he... how did the funeral go?”

“Closed casket, of course,” Andrew said grimly. “They did shoot him in the head you know. Peter and Gale bore it all reasonably well. No one is letting on about Michael,” he added. “So at least he wasn't publicly disgraced. Patrick Bell gave the Eulogy, though he despised him of course. Made him out to be the newest saint in heaven.”

“In perfect Travers tradition then,” Emma said with a small bleak smile, “Canonized in public and damned behind closed doors.” There was silence for a moment. Andrew wondered if he should go. He was beginning to doubt this mission had a point of any kind. It was all so long ago. But as he searched Mrs. Dunstan's face, he caught a glimpse of Emma, hiding there, peaking out at him. So long ago and yet.... “Poor Quentin,” Emma said, sounding as calm and resigned as her companion now. “He hadn't a chance you know.”

Andrew smiled sardonically. “Still it did give us a chance to practice our abominable parenting. Else we might not have perfected it so quickly.”

“Might have accidentally gotten a thing or two right,” Emma agreed, taking up the thread of his black humor, still sounding well to the grim side of even the bleakest amusement.

“Look,” Andrew said, his falsely light tone belying serious concern, “You've got to sort yourself out, Emma. The Council's a mess, and you know Oliver can't decide what to have for lunch without someone to hold his hand and tell him what he thinks. We need you.”

“I suppose it is a bit late for a suicide pact,” Emma admitted, more or less conversationally. “Back then it've been romantic. Now it'd just be silly.”

“Nothing we did was ever romantic,” Andrew pointed out, “And you'll notice you don't her me volunteering.”

“What do you want from me?” Emma asked.

“What? I've told you,” Andrew insisted “The Council—”

“I mean besides your rather unconvincing bid to persuade me that I'm indispensable,” Emma clarified tiredly. “What _did_ you want to talk about before I go?”

Andrew let out a frustrated sigh. This was how she was playing it. Stubborn thing that she had always been. She might change her own mind, but he certainly couldn't change it. Whatever he wanted to know, he had best ask. “I want to know where my daughter is buried.”

Emma smiled at the wall, an ugly little smile. “I suppose there are other people in the world who want that,” she replied sardonically.

“I suppose there are,” he agreed, his own tone stiffening a bit, not so much friendly as polite now. “But I think we both know the complications involved in that. Anyway, it doesn't change anything between us, does it?”

Silence reigned for a long moment. Andrew feared his audience was at an end. He wondered again if he should just leave, but he honestly felt he needed to know. “Father took her,” Emma said at last. “He took her body away from me and told me to take a bath and go back to bed. I never asked him what he did with her. I tried to ask him then what he was going to do, but he just kept saying, 'Don't worry, it's alright.' Well it's been fifty-seven years and let me tell you, My Dear, it is not alright!”

*****

Finally, after she'd been sitting there alone for what seemed like forever, Amal's mother knocked once and then came in without waiting for an invitation. “Hi,” Amal said, putting her pillow down, trying to smile. This was it. The other Big Talk. Malalai smiled back weakly, sadly and sat down next to her on the bed, not making eye contact. Amal felt a sudden stab of anger. She wished everyone would stop acting like they were sending her to her death. This was supposed to be her wedding day, not a virgin sacrifice. “What am I going to wear?” she asked, suddenly worried. When her cousin Fatima had gotten married last month, she'd had a three day party with a different beautiful dress each day and so much attention and presents that Amal had been jealous. Everyone had kept telling her, 'you'll get your turn', but now she guessed she wouldn't after all. Just one more item in the 'never' column.

“The blue dress you wore to the funeral will be fine,” Malalai said, dismissively, “We'll lighten it up with a couple of pretty scarves. I wanted to talk to you about something more important.” Still with the sad-serious voice, and heavy looks. Fatima was only a year older than Amal, but she was fifteen, because her birthday was sooner. Everyone had been happy for her. No one had acted like they were doing anything wrong. Of course, she'd known her new husband since God made dirt. And he was only nineteen.

“About... being married?” Amal prompted, wriggling uncomfortably, impatient for the conversation to progress and to be over with.

“In a way,” Malalai admitted. “But also about... being strong in your faith. I don't know, what your father has told you about The Council, about what it means to be a Watcher.”

“Nothing,” Amal said with frustration she found it very easy to fake. “Less than nothing. Just... someday you'll need to know important secrets. That kind of thing.” Normally she wasn't a good liar, but this was an easy lie. It was important. And her mother wouldn't understand. Besides, she had plenty to be frustrated about. Plenty of things she wished it was possible to know. About the future. Both futures, actually. The one she was about to have and the one she wasn't.

“I don't know much about it myself,” Malalai admitted, “Expect that clearly they are right about … vampires and demons walking the Earth, and also about Aabirah. She is very special. But, I worry for you both, and for your brothers. I worry what it is they mean to teach you. Just know this. Wherever this path in life takes you. Whatever... secrets and mysteries you discover, nothing is more important than your walk with God. Don't ever let anyone turn you from that, not your husband, not your father, no one.”

Amal waited for her to continue. “Is that it?” she demanded when it didn't seem like it was going to happen. “Is that all you have to say to me; be close to God? I'm getting married in four or five hours to a man I've never met! You're walking around acting like it's a fate worse than death, and I'm not even supposed to have an opinion! I don't even get a new dress, and you're just... telling me stuff I already know! I want you to tell me, I don't know, what to expect!”

“Amal,” Malalai said her voice tight with impatience, looking down at her own hands, embarrassed and maybe a little angry herself. “We've talked about sex before...”

“We talked about body parts,” Amal corrected her, just as impatiently. “And menstruation and ovulation and, and two dozen words on what goes where! But not—What if he doesn't know what he's doing, or doesn't care? How do _I_ know what to do? What if it's awful? What if he's ugly or mean or hates me or it hurts!?! And, maybe _I_ wanted to be a doctor or fall in love or at least finish school! But now I can't! And you don't care! You're just worried I'm going to learn some secret anti-vampire whatsit and decide I'm not a Muslim anymore!”

There was silence for a moment. “I can give you something to take afterwords, so that you won't become pregnant,” Malalai said finally. “But as for... the rest of it? You are old enough, physically, if not by so much—I worry more about Aabirah, which is something I suppose one of us is going to have to discuss with him, but—sex should not usually be painful. Even the first time, only very slightly. But it sometimes is if the man is not patient and careful. I wish I could tell you.... There are some men, like you father, who are naturally very considerate and some with whom you have to insist. I say this to my patients all the time. Don't ever let a man, not your husband, not anyone press you to do anything you're not ready for. You have to be strong, stand up for yourself. Which doesn't mean that you have to challenge his authority. But don't ever let a man hurt you. You have to be firm with them without... insulting their egos. You have to be subtle, and yet, act always with integrity. You have to both earn and demand respect in this life Alam, every woman does.”

Amal nodded, swallowing hard. Translation? 'That's your problem, deal with it.' “Well,” she said after a while, trying again to smile, trying to make herself feel better and to maybe apologize to her mom a little for loosing her temper, “Maybe I _will_ fall in love with my husband. The name is a good sign, anyway,” she added, sort of half joking and half hopefully.

Malalai gave her The Look. Ultra composed/dignified, hooded eyes, lips pressed tight together. Amal didn't let herself sigh or roll her eyes, but her heart sank and she couldn't help showing it. All American movies were unIslamic, of course. Even though they had been fine in St. Louis. Even though her Muslim grandmother had bought her a million of them on VHS to watch over and over and her mom had never objected once. Everything was unIslamic now. Madhubala was 'unIslamic'. Welcome to the New Afghanistan. That's your problem. Deal with it.

 


	7. The Name of the Rose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Buffy and Joyce make shocking discoveries in Ethan's London apartment, Giles shocks Wesley even more with his advice about destiny, fate, and what Watchers have always done to teenage girls. Giles thinks he's done being shocked, but he has yet to see all that London and The Council have in store.

“What, exactly, are we looking for?” Joyce asked tiredly as she browsed through shelves full of thick, ancient-looking, leather-bound books with names like 'The Dodecanomicon' and 'La Mort du Roi de l'Enfer'.

“I don't know,” Buffy admitted. “But he's obviously coming back. He wouldn't have left all of this stuff so easily otherwise. Or if he thought he didn't have a choice, he'd have been more pissed about it. And he'd have at least tried bluffing and trickery first. He's too full of himself to just _assume_ I would see through him and kick his ass. He's up to something, and before he does come back, I'd like to try and figure out what.”

“It'll be getting dark soon,” Joyce pointed out.

Buffy less-than-shrugged. “This is still his place,” she said. “No vamps are going to come in here unless he literally invites them himself, and as creepy as he is, I still doubt he hangs out with vampires. I mean, he's evil, not stupid.” Joyce raised an eyebrow. “What?” Buffy asked, honestly puzzled.

“That's an interesting statue,” Joyce said tactfully, approaching the first striking object upon which her eye alighted. And it was. It was a classically derived figure of Zeus (sporting a huge, erect penis, as was common in certain time periods) shamelessly fondling a very happy-looking young Ganymede. They were carved in unvarnished walnut, with accents painted over in bronze. Not exactly as they might have been in an particular epoch of ancient Greek history, but with a definite feel of pre-industrial mass artisanship, of an inexpensive, everyday household icon.

The thirteen inch high figure sat, not on the mantel, nor one of the bookshelves, but on a tiny, round marble table that looked opulent and out of place in what was not quite the middle of the otherwise swank-less room, nor quite tucked in a corner either. As if it's placement hadn't done enough to reinforce the idea that this was an object of actual religious significance, it shared the table with a smaller figure in clear blue glass, who had to be either Leda or Nemesis, complete with swan. Between the two statuettes stood a pair of once matching black and gold candles. One was burned to a charred wick in a congealed puddle; the other appeared untouched. Joyce ran a fingertip lightly over each double figure. The contrast between the two—masculine and feminine, light and dark, color and neutral, pastoral and industrial, grainy as life and smooth as fantasy—seemed deeply significant to her critically trained eye, but the exact significance of the arrangement eluded her.

“Is that bird doing what I think it's doing?” Buffy asked, now standing at her mother's elbow.

“Yes, Dear,” Joyce admitted, nodding embarrassedly, even blushing a bit. She was as embarrassed by the fact of being embarrassed as anything else. Despite herself, comfortable as she usually was with classical depictions of sexuality, Joyce felt distinctly _un_ comfortable being asked exactly that question by Buffy. Especially in that casually disapproving, quintessentially teenaged tone, complete with squirmyness and nose crinkling.

“Jeepers,” Buffy said, as if to underscore the point that she wasn't mature enough to appreciate this kind of art for what it was, “She's worse than the other one was.” That this (understandably) childish reaction was coming from a married, sexually active person (who was still her teenaged daughter) made Joyce all the more uncomfortable. She wondered again if she'd made a good decision or a cowardly one, letting Buffy marry so young. Especially to someone whose experience of the world (in all its deep, dark shades of gray) was clearly so very far beyond what her own limited experience could even begin to comprehend. But that was like worrying how much water was in the pool after you'd already jumped off the high dive. Or after you'd been pushed.

Joyce sighed. _Even the gods don't fight against Anenke._ “These are classic depictions of Zeus and his … uhm, 'amorous conquests'," she explained. “Turning into a swan was one of his go-to moves.”

“Eww,” Buffy chirped. “Note to self, _all_ religions freaky. Since always.”

“Displayed the way they are, with the candles...” Joyce went on, trying to keep the conversation productive.

“This is his alter,” Buffy concluded firmly. “This has to do with whatever magic, Ethan is up to. Magic is what happens when your gods actually listen to you, apparently,” she explained matter-of-factly. “Unlike regular religion.”

“This is important,” Joyce agreed. “So what do we do now?”

This time Buffy's face crinkling was sheepish, apologetic as she explained, “I think this might be the part where we have too look stuff up.” Nodding and sighing, Joyce walked back over to the bookshelf and resumed reading the spines of the volumes, looking for titles related to Greek or Roman myth, religion, and history.

~~~~~

“I do believe this has got to be the single dullest stag night in the history of mankind,” Peter tried to joke. The four Watchers had been sitting in grim silence around a tiny pub table for far too long. He and Giles had brought the contract, real estate deeds and other documents that Julian and Heathcliff had asked them to pick up, but they were all still waiting for the agent who'd been sent to obtain Wesley's first set of false travel documents to make contact.

“Hilarious,” Wesley snarled, and went back to sipping at a cup of black coffee with a hangdog look, not appreciating his companion’s attempt at levity in the slightest.

“Oh for God's sake,” Giles snapped, swallowing his fourth shot of Scotch in half as many hours, more annoyed than ever. “Would you stop... carrying on as if you were set to be hanged?” His hip was killing him. And besides which, he thought it was awfully self-centered of Wesley not to at least try to be considerate of Peter's feelings on today of all days. He had just buried his murdered father, after all.

“Here, here,” Heathcliff agreed, raising his glass of water in mock salute.

“Should you be drinking that with your pain medication?” Wesley asked sourly.

“Humph,” Giles scoffed. “That rubbish they gave me at the hospital? Hyrocodone(!) Might as well be aspirin. I've been taking twice what the doctor prescribed and it isn't doing a goddamned thing.”

“Why didn't you tell them you had a tolerance?” Wesley countered.

“Because if they'd gotten wind of my 'history',” Giles explained impatiently, “they really would have sent me home with aspirin. High-handed bastards.”

“Thinking you'd rather have some of Mr. Gaudencio's 'Asian antiquities', Peter teased, mildly sardonic.

“Don't tempt me,” Giles grumbled dryly.

“Don't worry, I shan't,” said Heathcliff crisply. The look on Wesley's face was acutely puzzled. He looked torn between enduring ignorance in silence and speaking at the risk of proving himself a fool. Giles rolled his eyes. He was tempted to enlighten the poor bastard, but then, he supposed Heathcliff could have done that himself if that was what he'd intended. Besides, if Julian's son was this down in the mouth over marrying a couple of young Asian girls, there was no telling how he'd react to the news that the Council had arranged his entry into a lucrative career as a heroin smuggler. Giles thought he might just as well not be around to see the poor dear in tears. It'd be too embarrassing.

“In fact,” Gaudencio continued, still addressing Giles, “I wish you'd lay off that stuff. You're already two shots ahead of me and Peter.” Wesley evidently wasn't drinking this evening. Giles thought maybe he should be. It might improve his disposition. On some level, Giles knew he was being a bit unfair to the young man, mostly because he really was still in agonizing pain.

If he were being fair, Giles would have had to admit that at times in his life he'd been at least as resentful and self-pitying as Wesley, even at times when the Council had asked quite a bit less of him. After all, the whole concept of a Watcher being allowed, let alone required, to have an intimate relationship with his Potential Slayer was still new, still alien and horrifying to a lot of people. Besides, he supposed any man had the right to resent being asked to violate his conscious, his better judgment, and the odd fourteen year-old Muslim virgin. But did he have to be so... dramatic about it? After all, it wasn't as though anyone were being killed on this particular occasion.

When Peter went to the loo and Heathcliff stepped outside to take what must have been a very private call indeed on his mobile, Giles finally decided to see if there was anything he could do to help the poor fellow sort himself out. “Look, I know we've hardly met more than to nod,” he half apologized, “and so this may be none of my business...”

“Quite probably,” Wesley agreed tersely.

“ _But_ ,” Giles continued undeterred. “I can't help noticing that you are completely fucking miserable. Which is a condition I dare say I've had a bit of experience in trying to avoid. Maybe I can help.”

“There's nothing for it,” Wesley answered sullenly. “Go on and have another drink.”

“Well,” Giles persisted, “but what is it precisely that bothers you so very much about this situation.”

“I'm expected to marry a thirteen-year-old girl whom I've never met,” Wesley pointed out. “Tonight! I hardly think it's cause for celebration.”

“Yes, I realize that,” Giles probed, “but can you tell me why _exactly_ that's such a problem for you?”

“Well I certainly wouldn't expect _you_ to understand,” Wesley huffed, “But it so happens that I'm not particularly attracted to children.”

Giles tried not to lose patience but it was difficult. “Nor am I,” he pointed out, “but that's hardly the point, is it? She is fourteen or near enough, which means she's bound to have more or less the right bits in the right places and all the right hormones and what have you to give and receive an adequate sexual response. Besides, I don't believe for a moment that you'd react this way if you were merely being asked to marry someone you found unattractive. You'd be... complaining, disparaging her perhaps, but this is different. I damn well know guilt when I see it. So, you tell me, what do you feel guilty about?”

“What do I feel guilty about?!” Wesley was incredulous. Lowering his voice, he hissed vehemently, “It's tantamount to rape!”

“How so?” Giles asked keeping his voice and features bland. Impassive.

“She hasn't even been given a choice!” Wesley bleated, nearly beside himself. “Not that she could be reasonably expected to make her own choice at this age. Especially knowing how strongly her father feels about it.”

“Well then,” Giles advised, keeping his voice even and businesslike, as if he were perfectly serious, “If you feel that way about it, don't do it.”

Wesley shook his head in angry frustration. “It's not that simple,” he objected. “I've been assigned.”

“So?”

“So!?!” Wesley nearly choked, “I can't defy the Council!”

“Why not?”

“Because it's the Council!” Wesley all but wailed. “Because—!” Suddenly remembering to drop his voice again, he rasped urgently, a stifled whine of petulance edging his voice, still struggling to be heard, “Because my own father would disown me and the lot of them would have my hide!”

“And why would they do that?” Giles followed up, feigning the barest hint of puzzlement, his voice otherwise mild, affable.

“Because they have—!” Wesley stopped abruptly, shaking his head. “Ha. Ha.” he said dryly, bitterly. “How very clever. Well now, I certainly see the error of my ways(!) Thank you for showing me the light, oh Wise Elder.”

“Why?” Giles persisted, his voice suddenly hard and sharp.

“Because there's no other way to get at this Potential Slayer,” Wesley admitted crossly, “Because if she's called and we're not there to guide her, it might literally be the end of the world, alright?”

“So _why_ are _you_ doing this?” Giles demanded. “And don't tell me you fear punishment. Being Stricken and turned lose in the world with nothing but a first rate education and your wits would be a relief compared to what you're putting yourself through, and you know damn well Julian isn't going to let them throw you in prison just for spite. Why are you doing it? Why didn't you tell them to get stuffed?”

“Did you not actually catch the bit about the end of the world?” Wesley snipped like the galling little priss that he was.

“So then, the real reason you're doing this is because you believe it is necessary and important,” Giles pointed out firmly. “Because you think it's the right thing to do, or at any rate, that it would be more wrong not to.”

“I suppose that's true,” Wesley admitted grudgingly.

“Which means there is absolutely no chance that you aren't going through with it.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“Then what exactly, might I ask, do you hope to gain by racking yourself with guilt?”

Wesley sighed deeply, becoming all the more frustrated. “I don't hope to _gain_ anything,” he explained.

“Well then you are a bloody fool,” Giles opined, “beating yourself up to no purpose. It's not going to do her any good either, and that _is_ experience I have to admit. The last thing you want is to let your guilt make her feel like a victim.”

“But she is a victim,” Wesley pointed out stubbornly.

“Says who?” Giles challenged. “Young girls have been getting married and shagged and everything in between since God first made young girls. It may not be the safest and healthiest practice on Earth but then, neither is slaying vampires.”

“It's not even so much the... sex,” Wesley finally admitted, practically blushing as he said the word, “though I think I could manage the rest a lot easier if it wasn't for that.” Giles relaxed a little and leaned in at the same time. At last they were getting somewhere. He let Wesley keep talking, keep articulating the problem. “It's more... the whole business,” Wesley tried to explain. Giles nodded thoughtfully and just a bit encouragingly. He could see that Peter had left the loo and crossed to the bar to get more drinks, which might take a few more minutes because there was a bit of a rush at the moment. Good. He hoped Heathcliff would be similarly detained. They would only get in the way at this point. “What I mean is, it's so unfair to her to have to sacrifice her ability to choose the life she wants to have, the... partner she might someday want to have, at this age just because it's—”

“—her destiny?” Giles finished dryly.

“For Aabirah, maybe,” Wesley admitted, “but Amal—”

“Is a Watcher,” Giles concluded firmly. Candidate was the technical term, but Wesley wisely chose not to quibble over that.

“But she's still so young,” he objected instead, not quite ready to concede the point.

“And how old were you,” Giles asked him pointedly, “when someone else _told_ you what you were going to be when you grew up.”

“I hardly think—”

“How old?”

Wesley looked down at his coffee cup a moment, then raised his head and met the other man's eyes. “I was eleven years old,” he answered. It sounded very much like a confession. To some extent, it seemed to unburden him in the same way, and yet, it also laid bare the truth of how burdened he still was. “It was a cruel shock.” the young Watcher all but whispered. “Sometimes I still feel... I'm proud to be a Watcher, I don't mean to say otherwise, but... I feel...”

“Trapped,” Giles guessed, from his own experience.

“Angry,” Wesley countered in a slightly awed tone, a tone of sudden realization. “Sometimes I just wish I was free to... well not so much to do what I want as to... figure out what I want. To be... allowed to want what I want. And I... Good Lord, I don't want to be responsible for putting someone else in that position!”

“But you're not responsible,” Giles pointed out. “She's Gaudencio's daughter. Even if she were staying in England, she'd be enrolling at Walsington this Fall. She's one of us, for better and for worse, whether you marry her or not. You can't change that by jeopardizing The Mission. And you certainly can't by feeling sorry for yourself.”

“I know that,” Wesley admitted, still frustrated, though noticeably less down in the dumps.

“So then, have a drink,” Giles advised. “One isn't going to kill you. Try and relax. Hell why _not_ celebrate a bit? You've just gotten an exiting, lucrative, vitally important field assignment. And from the sheer size and utter disproportion of the 'gifts' Heathcliff and Julian are providing to be exchanged, it's clear they see this as a great deal more than providing an adequate cover. There is an actual, substantial transfer of wealth from the House of Hippolytus to the House of Gaudencio taking place. This despite the fact that, from the point of view of the Council as a whole, you're the one providing a service at Gaudencio's request.”

“Which means my father is basically buying me a wife from the very best stock,” Wesley pointed out, threatening to laps into his previous, despairing tone again.

“ _Which means_ ,” Giles countered, “Julian and Heathcliff have their own ends in mind, quite apart from and in addition to protecting the world from the Forces of Darkness.”

“They're breeding us like horses,” Wesley agreed morosely

Giles sighed in exasperation. “They're cementing an alliance,” he clarified, “Forming a bloc. Do year realize that thirty or forty years out you're being set up to become First Among Equals with the strongest power-base that anyone in the history of the Council has ever had? Two Hippolyton votes plus Gaudencio's means a standing veto to anything. Your father must think quite a lot of your talents to want to put you in a position like that.”

“ _Really_ ,” Wesley murmured in a tone of sheer amazement. “I hadn't looked at it like that,” he admitted.

“As for the rest of it,” Giles advised, “Don't be too hard on yourself or too sorry for yourself either. It's quite possible that neither your life nor anyone else's will be completely ruined by all this.”

“Completely ruined or not, they'll certainly be worse than they might have been otherwise,” Wesley opined. “Mine, hers and probably the other one's as well.”

Giles shrugged. “Life has a way of being both better and worse than you expect, no matter what you do,” he countered philosophically. “This girl, Amal, if your going to do what your going to do with her, you've got to make her feel okay about it; the sex, the being stuck with each other, all of it. Anyone deserves at least that much. Fortunately, it shouldn't be too difficult.”

Wesley's brow furrowed. “And how is that?”

“Because she's a good, sweet, obedient young girl who's been brought up to believe in fate,” Giles explained patiently, “and even if she wasn't, this is really her only chance at love or happiness for the foreseeable future. She's bound to be looking to like. Honestly, all you have to do is be kind to her and she'll probably fall madly in love.”

“But what if she isn't,” Wesley worried. “Looking to like, I mean.”

“Well then,” Giles advised, “approach her the way you would a Slayer.”

“I think you and I might have different views of what that entails,” Wesley replied primly.

“I _mean_ ,” Giles clarified, “make her feel that what she's being call upon to do is right and important no matter how strange or frightening it might at first seem. That it's what she herself would choose if she were being given a choice, or better still that she _is_ choosing it though (considering her righteousness, courage, and wisdom) you have absolutely no doubt what her choice will be. Honestly, aren't they covering cold approaches in Training anymore?”

“Cold in the sense of without preparation,” Wesley answered haughtily, “What you're suggesting is cold in an altogether different sense.”

“Yes,” Giles agreed drily. “I'm suggesting that you callously manipulate a young girl into accepting a destiny not of her own choosing by helping her to feel both honored and obligated to do the best she can with it. Or don't you know what it means to be a Watcher?”

Wesley was clearly shocked, his dignity blistered. “Being a Watcher does not mean... taking advantage of young girls,” he began to argue. “It means—”

“Hell it doesn't,” Rupert argued back just as stubbornly, having half forgotten why he'd started this conversation in the first place, feeling the effects of his self-adjusted mixture of opiates and alcohol at last. “That's all we bloody do is take advantage. Steal their power. Use them as tools, use them as cannon fodder. And I don't just mean Slayers either. That's what we do with our children, our eager little 'Candidates'. Always has been. Why should this girl be any different?

“It isn't as though you'll have to lie to her either. Little as she's bound to have seen of the world, you can probably sweep her off her feet with a line like 'my don't you have nice eyes.' Honestly, half the reason this is illegal is _because_ it's too easy. Like shooting birds on the ground. Unsporting. Bloody hell, when she sees you she'll probably think she's won the lottery anyhow.”

Wesley’s genuinely puzzled look was excruciating to behold. Giles rolled his eyes. “I assume you _can_ , see in a mirror?” he inquired sardonically. “I don't need to check your pulse, do I?”

“I'm afraid I've quite lost the thread of what you're saying,” Wesley insisted honestly seeming both baffled and annoyed.

“For the Love of Christ!” Giles more or less chided him, still not quite able to believe such obliviousness, “Are you telling me that it has entirely escaped your notice that you are one of the most attractive men in all of England and quite possibly the world? My God, I'm surprised you can walk down the street without someone trying to take a bite out of you!”

Peter appeared as if out of nowhere, laughing nervously. “Am I interrupting something?” he quipped. “Because if you two want to be alone I could just...” If that remark had been meant to lighten the suddenly tense atmosphere, it didn't. Quite the opposite.

Rupert could feel his face flush. He had to avert his eyes as Wesley's expression shifted from stunned blinking to horrified disgust edged very slightly with contempt and embarrassment. He felt as much a fool for blushing as for anything he'd said. Anyone with eyes could see that Wesley was a handsome, well-formed man. And the circumstances of the conversation might easily have justified pointing out that fact quite emphatically. If only he hadn't reacted as though he'd been caught at something.

Which he hadn't. No matter how much he might feel that way. The feeling was irrational, Rupert reminded himself firmly. The bastard child of anachronistic prejudices and bad memories. Nevertheless, he found himself dangling his glasses from one hand with exaggerated nonchalance while he rubbed his temples with the other, over emphasizing his relatively mild headache as an excuse to partly hide his face an completely cut off conversation. Without another word, Peter sat the drinks he'd procured on the table; black coffee for Rupert and Scotch whiskey for Wesley, though they'd requested the opposite.

Conditionally resenting what was either a poor joke or a sincere judgment that was probably right for the wrong reasons, Rupert sipped the coffee. Shrugging, affecting a sort of recklessly cheerful resignation, Wesley raised his glass. “To fate!” he declared, sounding very much like a man amused to find himself in the absurdest of all possible predicaments.

“And all she holds in store,” Peter agreed, raising his own glass.

“For better and for worse,” Rupert murmured, unable to suppress a small smirk as he went on sipping his coffee.

“Mr. Giles,” Gaudencio said firmly, almost grimly, walking back into the pub, approaching but stopping well short of the table. “Might I have a word with you outside? There's been a change of plan,” he added to Wesley and Peter. "My son David will be coming to collect you and bringing your documents. Rupert and I will meet you at the house later.”

“What is it?” Giles asked worriedly when they were out of earshot as Gaudencio clearly intended. He felt himself sobering slightly already. Their was a heaviness to the air that told him that might be important, that he needed to keep his wits about him.

“We're going out to an airfield near Reigate,” Heathcliff informed him grimly. “to one of the hangers to which I deliver my 'antiquities'. Your old friend Weatherby is meeting us there.”

“Bloody hell,” Rupert mumbled, somewhere between shocked and disgruntled. Anything Weatherby was mixed up in had to be nothing good. Besides, he and Giles were the last two survivors of the old Travers Set still working for the Council, now that Quentin was gone and Gwendolyn nowhere to be found.

“Relax, Mr. Giles. It isn't as though we're going to be getting the old gang back together and up to old tricks,” Gaudencio, 'assured' him, in a tone that sounded oddly ironic. Bitterly sardonic in fact, which was enough to put Rupert even more on the alert. His instinct was not wrong. “Mr. Weatherby has been causing more than his usual amount of trouble,” Gaudencio went on explaining, “even without Quentin around to put him up to it any longer. He's angered some already uneasy allies of the Council by putting one of their operatives in needless danger and attacked one of our own agents without instructions. And so, we've got to deal with him. Permanently.”

“Right, of course,” Giles scoffed bitterly, shaking his head. He didn't elaborate aloud. He didn't need to. His companion understood his not-quite-complaint, even if he didn't sympathize in the least. One week. Rupert fumed silently. He'd been back in town one bleeding week, back to being punished by the Council for only two buggering days, and already his life was becoming eerily familiar. Because here he was, back in bloody London.

~~~~~

“It might have been 1973,” Buffy read aloud from the last entry of the handwritten journal they had stumbled across. From a quick thumb through, it had seemed to be an account mostly of the spells he'd performed, not unlike the ones Amy had kept of Katherine's, with maybe a few more than usual 'droll observations of life' thrown in, because that was just Ethan's personality. But this was different. Joyce was watching her daughter uneasily, in a way that made Buffy uneasy right back. Her voice faltered uncertainly and she continued to read. “Seeing Ri—Rupert,” she quickly amended for Joyce's benefit, “with his latest... teenage trophy tart, made me a lot more j-jealous than I ever thought I could be... after.... after so many years. Even when I was... was plotting to amuse myself at his expense. And at the same time... remembering... remembering what it was li—”

Buffy's eye darted along the next few lines of text. She slammed the book closed. “You know what,” she said, brightly, almost frantically, “this doesn't look like anything useful at all, so I'm just going to keep—” Joyce reached for the book with a gentle, almost pitying look. But the force with which Buffy held onto it and pulled it closer to herself, further from her mother, almost pulled Joyce from her chair onto the floor. She had to let go to stay upright. Joyce blinked in surprise and took a couple of deep breathes to still that part of her confusion that wanted her to be angry, to resent Buffy's strength and her willingness to use it against her.

Buffy looked apologetic, but in no sense relenting. Joyce gave her a patient, corrective look. Buffy caved, sort of. She opened the journal, or what ever it was and thumbed her way back a couple of entries until she found some recent magic being described at last. She read through it hurriedly, to herself this time, just in case of references, and then looked up at Joyce. “Mom,” she asked worriedly, jerking her chin in the direction of Ethan's makeshift alter, “you didn't touch anything on that table at all, did you?” Joyce's guilty look was enough confirmation that she had. “Grab the candle!” Buffy half shouted, jumping to her feet.

“Why?” Joyce asked, even as she moved to do exactly that.

“Because,” Ethan explained with grim amusement, suddenly appearing between the alter and the two women, “That little party game I arranged for Ripper and Little Myra Gale the other night was  _ not _ my revenge.” Ethan grinned wickedly. “That was the bait,” he explained. “Now it's time for the switch.”

 


	8. Switch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything's changing. Or not what it seems. Or both. Mostly both.

“Let me make sure I've understood you correctly,” Rupert repeated, openly mocking disbelief as a way of expressing his indignation. “You want me to _murder_ Mr. Weatherby, whom I've known for over twenty-five years, in exchange for your good report to the council that I'm behaving myself and following orders like a Good German; and you somehow think the fact that both the Inner Council and my _father_ have approved it, in secret of course, is going to make me feel completely comfortable committing such a crime?” 

Heathcliff sighed. Though Rupert's tone and inflection were very different, the majority of his words and the entirety of his overwrought sense of moral condemnation were so identical to those of Julian's son as to make the whole conversation seem a tedious repetition from the outset. “Got it in one,” he answered crisply, never taking his hands from the wheel nor his eyes from the road.

Rightly or wrongly, the Seat Holder found himself having much less patience and sympathy with the older Watcher than he had with the younger one. While it was true that Rupert literally was being asked to take a human life—the life of someone he knew personally at that—well... it wasn't exactly an  _ innocent _ life. And it was nothing he hadn't done before. Nor was he being asked to get his hands dirty while his superior kept his clean. They'd be doing it together. And Heathcliff's role could easily turn out to be the uglier of the two.

“No,” Rupert said, very carefully and deliberately. Several heartbeats passed, but he said nothing more.

Heathcliff whipped the car over to the side of the road and pulled to a stop. He turned to face his passenger, hands still tightly gripping the wheel. “You know better than this,” he said, his voice hard and flat. “Or at least, you used to. You can lie to your wife about it if you want. God knows I do, whatever fucking god you want to ask knows I do. But don't start lying to yourself, thinking you can be some kind of comic book hero who only does good things and still somehow wins all the time.  _ This _ is how wars are won, Rupert. By maintaining order and discipline so that the entire organizations acts as a single being. By following the chain of command.” 

Rupert stared back. Arms folded. Mind closed. Silently determined.

“Mr. Weatherby's lack of self-discipline, his disrespect for order and authority—as well, I might add, for human life—threaten the structure and functioning of the Council,” Heathcliff tried again. “It can't be tolerated. He can't be tolerated.” He took a deep breath and twisted the knife. “Especially in light of the way certain recent events have seemed to call into doubt the Inner Council's ability to take a hard line against insubordination.”

Rupert smiled grimly, pulling at his chin, nodding thoughtfully. “The appeal to guilt was a nice touch, if a bit clumsily executed,” he opined dryly. “Shows you do personalize your argument to your audience. Still, your duty, honor and intellectual pride pitches were a bit better. Subtler. Obviously your go-tos. I shouldn't wonder, dealing with Watchers or Rajab's lot either one. You didn't make your threats to kill me or my wife explicit, and I appreciate that. Because, really, under the circumstances, a word to the wise  _ should _ be enough. No need to be vulgar about it, which you weren't. Overall, I give you fairly high marks, but then...” His smile widened, his eyes darkened, and he made a sound that stood at the very edge of laughter, “I suppose _ you _ are actually the one marking this exam.”

Heathcliff smiled back cruelly, more for deliberate effect than because there was anything about this situation that actually made him feel like smiling. “Got it in one,” he repeated, putting the car back in gear and continuing the way they had been going.

*****

Ethan snapped his fingers. They gave off a flint on steel sound, like a lighter striking. As if a switch had been flipped, the virgin candle sparked to light on the table behind him. Buffy moved as if to lunge at him, but when he raised his hand in a casual blocking gesture, suddenly, she found that she couldn't. “I knew you were coming,” he pointed out, amused. “I did take some precautions. Of course, I  _ thought  _ you'd come alone,” he half complained. “You've rather ruined the poetic quality that all of this was meant to have, actually. But still, a hostage is a hostage, I suppose. A pound of flesh, cut near the heart and all that.” 

Ethan paused and smiled just a tiny bit self-mockingly. “You may even have saved me from doing something very tedious and foolish to _ do _ just because it would have been mind-blowing to  _ have done.  _ And unspeakably irritating to....” At this point he actually sneered. There was nothing else you could call it. “... our mutual 'friend'.” Though the rest of what he'd said made little sense and clearly wasn't meant to, yet; there was no mistaking who or what he meant by saying 'friend' exactly like that. Buffy only hoped it wasn't as obvious to her mother as it was to her. Buffy felt like her knowledge of what he was insinuating and her irrational certainty that it was somehow, unaccountably true were written all over her face. 

Dishearteningly, Joyce did look extremely uneasy. Maybe even physically sick, in fact. And yet, she hardly seemed to notice Buffy and Ethan at all or to be reacting to anything they had to say. It was as if she had been stricken by something terrible and sudden and completely unrelated to what was going on around her. Like a major migraine or an attack of appendicitis, only not. But Buffy barely had a moment to notice, let alone deal with that possibility. She certainly didn't have time to argue with herself that Giles was not and could not possibly be gay given everything she knew for a fact he had done, said, and felt about her and, to her knowledge, several other women. She still had to focus on the very immediate threat posed by the clearly deranged wizard in front of her.

“But, no matter,” Ethan went on, flippantly. He looked over at Joyce with poorly feigned, theatrical indifference. “At any rate,” he said, “binding my fate to yours should be enough to keep old Ripper off my back.” He nodded in Buffy's direction. “As long as he's got that one looking over his shoulder, anyhow.”

Enraged, unable to stand his smirking any longer, Buffy grabbed the nearest heavy object (which happened to be a book) and threw it at him. Ethan reacted on instinct, easily deflecting it with a casually magical wave of his hand. Then his smirk became even wider. “On second thought,” he said, drawing what looked like a ceremonial dagger from some impossible fold of his robe, offering her the hilt. “Go ahead. I'm sure Mummy doesn't mind.”

Buffy wretched the weapon forcefully from Ethan's hand, despite his lack of resistance. For a red-hot second, she was actually pretty close to stabbing him in his seventies porn-star chest. “Careful dear,” he warned her, eying Joyce just a bit too keenly. “You always hurt the one you love, you know.” She looked worriedly at Buffy, her attention undivided at last.

The horror and disbelief written all over her mother's face would have been enough to give Buffy pause, to make her hesitate and pull back from the edge of mortal violence. Probably. But there was more going on here than that. Something else making her hesitate. Ethan kept looking at Joyce eagerly, expectantly in his 'I've got a secret' way. Dropping his little hints.

Buffy got it. Breathing out slowly, trying to rid herself of anger which now had no safe object, she pocketed the dagger. Still, the young Slayer couldn't quite rid herself of the nagging hope that he might be bluffing. That his smirk was because he thought he was playing her, making her think she couldn't hurt him when in fact she could, with impunity. Suddenly, her hand shot out and grabbed Ethan firmly by the wrist, making both he and Joyce jump. But anyone might have jumped at that. Buffy had acted so impulsively that she had almost startled herself. Which was probably the only way she had gotten past Ethan's defenses.

She still needed a test.

Just in case Ethan had some reason of his own for wanting a drop or two of his blood shed by that particular dagger, Buffy left it in her pocket and drew a small knife from a sheath inside her waistband instead. Still holding him tightly by the wrist, she carefully poked the tip of his index finger until one tiny red bead of liquid glittered on the surface of his skin. They both looked at Joyce expectantly. She still looked somehow less than entirely well, but no more so than she had a moment earlier.

“What is it?” she asked finally, when the others had stared a moment too long.

Both the Wizard and the Slayer shifted their weight and eyed each other uncomfortably out of the corners of their eyes while continuing to watch Joyce carefully. Buffy adjusted her grip on her knife, less Swiss-army, more ready for trouble. “Mom,” she said carefully-calmly, “show us your hands.”

Joyce looked even more puzzled than uncomfortable. “What about them?” she asked, holding them palms out, ten perfectly intact fingers waiving for all to see. “My hands are fine. It's my... insides that feel... strange. It's as if... oh Buffy, can't we just... I feel like... I may need a doctor.”

“Oh Bugger!” Ethan gasped, eyes going wide, honestly astonished, maybe even horrified. Then he disappeared from view again.

*****

Cordelia tried to eat her lunch alone. She meant to hide in the computer lab or somewhere. She thought it would be better. She still felt weird. Not like talking. But it wasn't that easy, trying to be left alone. She had to say she was not eating, and even then, way too many people kept asking her if she was alright and if there was anything they could do. “All right,” she joked, when Aura offered to not eat with her, “when did I become super-popular again?”

“About the time everyone who didn't think so died,” Aura said matter-of-factly. “About the time we finally realized we needed our queen back to tell us what to do about it.”

There was something a little too... formal or... earnest or... something about that. Cordelia tried to laugh it off. “Wow, thanks for the vote of confidence and everything, but I'm not technically the queen of anything for real.”

Aura leveled a deadly serious look at her. “No, you are,” she said. Deadly serious. “This isn't a game. And it's nothing to do with cheerleading. People are dying. And grownups are letting it happen because they're too afraid to say the “v” word. But you're not afraid. You're helping us. You're showing us how to defend ourselves, how to defend other people. You're getting it done because that's what you do.” For once, Cordelia really didn't know what to say. She didn't have to. Aura wasn't done.

“It's like... the fifth grade field trip, when Blaine Mall pushed Holly Charleston down that huge water slide even though she couldn't swim? And Mr. Daniels is totally panicked like threatening to leave and go 'get someone', and Ms. Flocker is off smoking a cigarette or something God knows where, and this whole process couldn't have lasted more than a minute and a half, because she is falling and screaming the whole time, and you just grab Mr. Daniels by the collar even though he's like two-hundred pounds, and you were like 'you're the someone' and _ordered_ him to get in the pool, and he caught her and everything was fine. And after, he was all like that was what he meant to do all along because it was obvious, but that's not how it was. You _made_ everything be all right because you saw what needed to happen and made him do it.

“And then in the sixth grade when everything suddenly switched from being about horses and best friends to being about boys and clothes, and it became not okay to get straight A's; you told us we were all being a bunch of idiots, which we were. And by the end of seventh grade, even me and Harmony quit hanging out with you in public, which did us no good because Northside girls still totally sucked and those bitches from Cherry Hill Elementary completely ran the Middle School with _Tiffany_ as their leader.

“And then eighth grade started and you came back from freaking Milan or Paris or some crap where you'd gotten your mom to teach you like, everything about designer clothes and makeup in like two months. And the next thing anyone knows, you're dating that guy on the Fondren High basketball team whose like sixteen and has an actual car, and Tiffany and Blue and all of the rest of them are kissing your ass, and we're begging you for the right to be cool again.”

Cordelia smiled, remembering. “You were such a sad, sorry bunch of traitors.”

“Yeah,” Aura agreed, seeming oddly fond of the memory herself.

“I did make you beg though, didn't I?” Cordelia teased, fully grinning now, shaking her head.

“It was like six months of purgatory,” Aura agreed, “ _you_ not wanting to be seen with _us_ for a change. But the point is, when we all turned into a bunch of pre-teen wannabitches, you were the only one who knew how shallow it was and tried to stop us. And then when you couldn't, you didn't just give up. You took over. You out Heathered every single one of us and all the Cherry Hill girls too. You made yourself Queen C, starting from rock-bottom. By being better.” And by having more money, Cordelia thought, amused as well as touched, but hey, who was she to interrupt?

“And then all this vampire stuff started, or got worse or whatever. And instead of burying your head in your pompoms like the rest of us, you actually joined up with the one tiny group of people who was doing anything whatsoever about it, boys-clothes-and-coolness be damned. And when you couldn't have it both ways, you went the way that mattered. Because you're for real, Cordelia. You have your shit together. Always have. And every time we haven't listened to you, we've been wrong, and we've been sorry. You're our leader. You're the smart one. You're the strong one. You're the Queen Cunt, and the forces of hell are going to be sorry they pissed you off. So yeah, if you're having trouble, if something's bothering you. I want to know. And I want to help.”

“Thank you,” Cordelia started to say, reaching out to touch Aura affectionately on the shoulder. She was about to start explaining that she really was fine, that she just needed a few minutes alone with her thoughts, to decompress. But when her hand actually landed on Aura arm, when she touched her, flesh to flesh, something completely different happened.

*****

“Where are we meeting again?” Ms. Caramel asked rhetorically, disgruntledly.

“Sister said to meet her at The House,” Ms. Myrtle chirped, sounding oblivious and indifferent, though they both knew damned well she was not. “She said she'd have it safely opened by the time we got there.”

“Indeed,” Ms. Caramel muttered grimly. They both knew there was nothing safe about it.

“It's an emergency,” Ms. Waddle argued, when Ms. Caramel pointed out, a few minutes later, exactly how unsafe being here really was. “Besides, they've been gone too long. There wasn't even a ward on the door. I literally got it open with nothing but a crowbar.”

“Which is liable to become a permanent part of your anatomy when She find out what we've done,” Ms. Caramel grumbled.

“Much as I hate to say it,” Ms. Myrtle tried to agree with what she hoped was finally being said, “perhaps we should cut our losses and let Her be?”

Ms. Waddle opened her mouth to respond, but Ms. Caramel preempted her sharply. “It's too late for that,” she stated bitterly. “We've already promised Her to Hecate. And yet, our sister's recklessness has pissed Her off to the point that She's actually _less_ likely to become a true Acolyte than if we had never come within a hundred miles of her. If we walk away now, we will face both of Their wrath. What are we going to do? Call on Him for salvation? Even if we could abase ourselves low enough to draw his attention, He'd destroy us without a moment's thought to win Her loyalty.”

“No one is suggesting that,” Ms. Waddle pointed out shrilly, as if worried Hecate would overhear them. As if She needed to, knowing the hearts of Her own as She did.

Suddenly, Ms. Myrtle straightened her back and became very still. Both of her companions turned their eyes to her expectantly, holding their breath. “We're past all this,” she whispered after a moment. “The battle is already begun.”

*****

Blood. Death. Aura, covered in blood. Still struggling to stand. Failing. Falling. Looking up at the giant, monstrous snake roaring above her. A snake which was somehow also the Mayor of Sunnydale. Golly Gosh Wilkins himself, yammering about civic pride at high school graduation.

“Are you _sure_ you're okay?” Aura repeated, more worriedly than ever.

“Pos,” Cordelia assured Aura and her other attendants for about the fiftieth time. “I am totally, fine.” She tried to smile, but it was less than convincing. She held the icepack to her head and waved several of the hoverers away, not wanting to let anyone get too close. Needing for them not to touch her.

What she'd already seen was too much. Her brain was seared. Things she'd always known, never known, and not quite understood. About Aura. Her past. Her present. Her darkly gleaming flash of future. Her ending, bathed in blood.

Cordelia wished she could tell herself that none of it was real. That it was too absurd. That the visions were like dreams; maybe random, maybe symbolic. But not real. It was exactly like what had happened with the clerk and the Quick Mart. Which hadn't seemed to make a lot of sense.

But Cordelia knew the truth. She could feel it. In her guts. This wasn't a dream. And it wasn't a nightmare, either. This was real life.

*****

“Where are we?” Willow whispered.

The nebulous being made no answer that she could hear... exactly. But she had the sense of a sardonic smirk as she came to know that neither space nor time was exactly the word for what she now inhabited.

“Who are you?” she squeaked, on the knifes edge between panic and angry demand.

Monstrous Cackling. Willow _knew_ Her name. Not that that was even the relevant question.

Why are we here? Willow demanded.

A smile. Closer.

A Test. Willow felt definite about this.

That smile again. With more of a chuckle than a cackle backing it this time. A chess board was present. A moment breathed. The concept of an arm extended from the person of the Goddess and swept the piece aside, sending their tiny, regimented world clattering into nothingness. She didn't play those kind of games. This wasn't going to be solved by logic. By being clever.

How then?

Foolish girl! By faith.

*****

“Lennette,” Doug sobbed in his sleep, not indistinctly enough. “Oh, God, no, please don't! Lennette! Oh Lenn—oh God, God no!” Faith tried to keep her eyes on the road and her ears closed. She turned the radio up. Trying to drown out the tiny part of her that said he was faking, making her feel like shit on purpose. And the not so tiny part that felt even more like shit for even thinking that, after he'd fucking set fire to his life to be there for her. Like he should have fucking done for the past twelve years but hadn't bothered.

She kept flicking her gaze like a snakes tongue over his face every ten seconds. It was like it was part of her driving routine: look ahead, hold for a while, check rear-view, check Doug's rapid eye movements for sighs of faking it, look ahead again and—“Holy fuck!” Faith shouted, slamming on her breaks, not quite getting stopped fast enough.

It was only a tiny bend in the road, but the sign was planted too fucking close. It toppled with a noisy crash as she cut the motor and got out to check her front end for any damage that might actually make it a problem to drive. It didn't look too bad.

“What the _hell_?” Doug asked, suddenly standing beside her.

“Sorry. Musta dosed off,” Faith lied easily. Doug gave her a sideways look. He was sort of getting to know her moves. The way guys do if you let them hang around for too long. _Especially_ if you let them hang around and _don't_ distract them with sex. Which she was like 95% sure was completely off the table at this point, even from his point of view. Faith guessed that was basically good, cause otherwise he'd be a scumbag, and a scumbag wouldn't be here. But it was a major tool missing from the tool box when you had to 'relate to people' without sex. Especially when it was already hard to tell who was more owed than owing.

“Well... I guess we're here, anyway,” he sighed. The sign said 'Welcome to Sunnydale.'

Faith frowned and nodded. “Home sweet hell.”

*****

The hanger was cold and damp. Uninsulated. Even if Giles hadn't known he was in England, he'd have know he was in England. In California it would have been sweltering. Or in Arizona, more to the point. “We need to raise the temperature in here,” Heathcliff pronounced decidedly, as if reading his mind. “And lower the humidity. The two environments need to be as similar as possible for the spell we have to do.”

There is no 'we', Giles wanted to say. But he looked down at 'Weatherby' (neither conscious nor unconscious, needlessly bound, skirt riding up around the hips) and held his tongue. “We need to build a large fire,” he agreed aloud instead. “Or several small ones. In barrels, perhaps?” Heathcliff nodded. He called out to hired men, who quickly set about the work.

“Whatever it takes to do this,” Heathcliff said grimly, carefully, as if working up to something, “it has to be done before midnight our time.” Giles sharpened his focus, listening attentively, watching the other Watcher carefully. “If not, Ms. Morgan may be attempting to complete the ritual as originally planned, which will cause substantial interference.”

Giles waited patiently for the other shoe to drop. He already knew that instead of sending the bodies of the two subjects winging in search of their souls as originally intended, Heathcliff meant to pull both Weatherby's natural body and the soul that now inhabited it through—or rather round—the substantial space between Arizona and England so that Ms. Morgan could return to her own body outside the custody of the aforementioned state and Mr. Weatherby could be killed. By Rupert Giles. Whatever the other shoe was, it must be heavy.

It was.

“Whatever else happens,” Heathcliff explained, _argued_ almost, “We have got to keep this body anchored here. We can't let her get away from us. And there's no time to undo everything that's been done up to now. If push comes to shove, if the pull of the forces that have already been set in motion becomes too great... radical action may be needed to counter that.”

Gaudencio was speaking so obliquely, that he might well have succeeded in not being understood, but for the look of grim, determined, post-dated regret on his face. Suddenly, Rupert understood. “Good Lord!” he gasped in shock. “You're planning to rape her.”

Heathcliff dropped his eyes, but his voice remained hard. “If I have to,” he admitted. “Come now Rupert,” he added, in response to Giles's horrified look, assaying cool bravado with only modest success. “Don't be so shocked. I've already made it clear that there is nothing I will not do to complete this task. Which is altogether to Ms. Morgan's benefit. And we've both fooled around with magic enough to know, there is nothing that anchors the human body in the midst of a soul transference half so well as being in a state of sexual union. What do you want me to do? Throw up my hands and risk letting her spend the rest of her life in an American prison just because she isn't in a position to assent to what is so clearly in her best interests?”

“The fact that you would thereby be acting entirely in the _Council's_ best interests and those of a certain transdimensional organization with whom they wish to curry favor, being, of course, merely a fortunate side effect,” Giles replied dryly.

Heathcliff snorted slightly, shaking his head. “Purse your lips all you want,” he said. “This is what's happening. I hope it won't be necessary to go to such extremes, but if it is, I shall. Meanwhile, as soon as Weatherby's sorry, traitorous face is in sight, regardless of what I might be doing or what else is going on, I expect you to put a bullet in it so that Ms. Morgan's spirit can be released to reenter her body before the energy from the spell starts to recede. And just remember, if you don't do it _before_ I manage to expel Weatherby's soul from her body, you will have killed this young woman. And by the way, the word you meant to use was 'we', is that understood.”

“What?” Giles asked, startled. In his still less than entirely sober state, he hadn't quite managed to follow Heathcliff round that last bend.

“'We',” Heathcliff repeted. “Not 'They'. You called The Council 'They', Rupert. Don't let it happen again.”


	9. They

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As some of our favorite Watchers strugle with doing their duty to the Council, the Slayers and Slayerettes are in for a few nasty surprises of their own.

 

It was a dark and stormy night. Especially considering the fact that it was one in the afternoon. And the fact that it had been a bright, sunny Southern California day only fifteen minutes earlier. Until the thunderheads had rolled up out of nowhere, blotting out the sun. Now torrential rains were beating down upon the earth, turning streets into creeks and ditches into canals. But even in the midst of this downpour, the air remained heavy, expectant, like the lull of a storm still waiting to be born.

“I don't like it,” Snyder pronounced with quiet ferocity. “They're up to something.”

“Uh... they who?” Mrs. Haulk asked worriedly, looking at Snyder as if she were worried about him, in fact. Snyder sighed. He's almost forgotten how dangerous it could be to be frank in this town, how little anyone wanted to acknowledge the truth.

“It's just an expression,” he dodged, to her immediate relief and acceptance. “I meant the storm system. It's going to get uglier before it gets better. We'd better cancel classes and get these kids home before the roads get too flooded even for the buses.”

Mrs. Haulk nodded eagerly. “I'll make the announcement,” she volunteered. But Snyder made no response. He had already pulled on his raincoat and was heading out the door. He drove home like a bat out of Hell, eager to find Gwendolyn and get her take on the situation, half afraid that she was somehow responsible for the storm.

When he got home, he told her as much, which made her laugh. “Richard,” she said, sounding about equal parts amused, flattered, and exacerbated, “your estimation of my talents never ceases to amaze me.” His second guess, that some local vampire has somehow procured this sunless afternoon in order to facilitate a feeding frenzy, met with even less credulity.

“From what I've studied and observed,” she explained with fraying patience, “conjuring a sudden storm of this magnitude would be even more difficult than casting a spell to throw an unnatural shadow across the sun for an unscheduled eclipse. And I never did meet a vampire who liked to get wet. No, I'd say this is most definitely the act of God, or a god at any rate. And a decidedly unhappy one. I'd wager that somewhere in this town is a Cleric or Acolyte who has been very much favored by the deity in question and has failed to meet expectations.”

“I wonder...” Snyder almost asked, but he let the sentence trail off and die before it got too close to subjects that shouldn't be discussed, even with his closest confidant outside the Administration.

Gwendolyn picked up on his meaning anyway. She was clever like that. “Well really there's no telling,” she pointed out. “Not with all the powerful magic that get's done in this town. But just to be safe, I don't think I'd stand too close to your powerful friend until this lets up. Unless you want to find yourself on the business end of a stray lightning bolt.”

*****

Buffy must have banged on a dozen different doors. Frantic. Begging for help. Or maybe demanding. Okay, sort of threatening. At least part of the time. She needed help, damnit! But she'd settle for a simple piece of information, she kept trying to explain. But no one opened up right now. Several people yelled at her through the door, also beg-demand-threatening. To the tune of 'go away'. 'Fuck off,' was the common phrase, actually. She didn't know if it was because it was London or just because it was a shitty neighborhood. She'd never gone anyplace quite so hood-like in L.A.

Finally, after minutes that seemed like days, shouting and crying, with her mom bleeding and moaning in her arms, she did 'kick this fucking door in.' There was a family inside. Little children, wide eyed, clinging to a mom with streaked hair and a ring in her nose. An impossibly young, skinny dad of some indeterminate white-but-not-very ethnicity, covered in tattoos, tried to get in Buffy's face and make her leave. Out of patience, she knocked him to the ground with an elbow and held him there with a foot on his chest. She locked eyes with his woman-girlfriend-wife, twentyish and terrified.

“Call an ambulance!” Buffy demanded. “I think my mom is dying!” She wanted to explain, to apologize, but her blood was pumping too hard. She wanted to tell them that she honestly meant them no harm. All she needed was 9-1-1. She just didn't happen to know their number.

*****

“What are we doing here?” Doug asked as Faith parked the car on the street in front of a seedy looking down-town bar with a neon sign that read 'Willies', as in I've got the. Thunder rolled and lightning split the sky, exactly has they would have if Doug and Faith had been approaching an eery old castle in a black and white monster movie.

“I'm getting us a place to stay,” Faith explained cryptically. She stepped out into the downpour, opened her arms wide and lifted her face to heaven, letting her red tube top get thoroughly soaked. Her hair, which was now short and dark, clung in little wet ringlets around her face.

Doug shrugged into the beat up brown leather jacket he gotten from an L.A. thrift store and followed her out. “How's that exactly?” He asked skeptically.

Faith teased him with a half a smile but only said, “You'll see.” She held the door of the bar open for him like a gentleman would for a lady. He obliged her, letting her have her fun. But he favored her with a look that said he definitely got the joke and that it was laughable indeed. In the next moment, he had cause re rethink that a little.

“Holy Shit!” Doug gasped as he got his first look at the clientele inside the bar. Eyes turned to them. Inhuman eyes. Running the gamut from indifferent or amused through annoyed and angry to murderously delighted. Doug turned as if to leave exactly the way they had come, but Faith put her arm around his waist, wedged herself under his arm, which she gently but firmly tugged into place around her shoulders, and steered him to an open table in a way that probably gave anyone watching the impression that he was steering her.

As he took his seat, she leaned down, pressed her lips against his ear and whispered, “I'm gonna pretend to go get us some drinks and then flirt with that vampire at the bar. Watch for a while and look pissed. Then come over all jealous and ask him to step outside. I'll do the rest. Simple.”

But to Doug, this situation seemed anything but. “Faith, wait,” he demanded in a harsh whisper, grabbing a hold of her arm to try and get her to pause and think more carefully, or at least to explain what she was thinking. But she pulled herself from his grasp so effortlessly that to the demons eying them it probably looked like he had just let her go.

“That's sweet, Baby,” she said aloud, “But I can get them. You shouldn't walk on that foot too much. I'll be right back.” She walked across the room and sat down on a swiveling bar stool, wiggled her denim skirted ass shamelessly side-to-side, 'getting comfortable'.

Her mark (a big muscular blond guy with no distinguishing features Doug could see other than being built like a linebacker) definitely noticed. Although, if he really was a vampire, Doug supposed what he might be seeing was a snack and not... well... what Doug couldn't help seeing, no matter how much he told himself he was a pervert for even noticing her that way at all. At least one part of Faith's plan was a cinch. Doug couldn't help watching her or the way Linebacker looked at her. Nor could he help looking uneasy and just a little bit pissed off.

When Faith leaned over practically in the guy's lap and put her hand on his thigh, saying something in a throaty undertone that made them both laugh, Doug took that as his cue. “Hey asshole,” he shouted, getting to his feet, “The lady's with me!”

With a deep, sonorous laugh, whatever man or beast he was stood to his full height. Which was six and a half feet if it was an inch. “What lady?” he demanded scornfully. “All I see's a bitch tryin'a hustle a free drink. Hell, I was just about to find out what she's willing to do for one.”

“Alright,” Doug demanded, amazed that his voice wasn't shaking, keeping his hands in his coat pockets, because they certainly were. “I think it's time we step outside.”

At the sight of the grim smile this brought to the stranger's face, Doug caught himself almost literally praying that Faith had a plan that would actually work as well as she seemed to think. Just in case she didn't, he didn't wait for a nod or any other formal signal of acknowledgment. He turned and exited by the front door, walking in the direction of the car, moving smartly. If things went downhill fast, he figured driving away, hopefully out of town, made a pretty solid back-up plan.

Of course, Linebacker followed him out, with Faith at his heels. She was begging the men to show restraint, but not very convincingly. Mainly because she was hardly able to keep a straight face. Doug just hoped that when everything was said and done the joke wouldn't be on the two of them.

And then it happened. Suddenly, Linebacker's face went from plainish ugly to hideously demonic. Lightning struck overhead, casting the monster's craggy face in garish relief. “Holy Mary Mother of God!” Doug gasped. But Faith only looked a trifle uneasy though still very determined. She had obviously had some idea of what to expect. But seeing was a whole new kind of believing, even for her. Not that she was quaking in her stolen leather boots or anything, but she was certainly no longer in any danger of laughing.

“Yeah,” the monster confirmed, grinning evilly, “The bitch was right. I am a vampire. And guess what.” Suddenly four other figures every bit as big and ugly as the foe they were already facing emerged from a couple of parked car to form a semi-circle behind Doug and Faith, cutting them off from their car and all other readily apparent means of escape. “So are they.”

*****

The ancient grandfather clock in the front hall tick-tick-ticked. It had already chimed nine and had just finished marking the quarter hour. “Do you think they'll be much longer?” Wesley asked nervously. Peter shrugged. He didn't ask which 'they'. The two young Watchers had arrived at Gaudencio's house in Surrey nearly an hour ago, after a not-at-all short wait for and much-too-long ride with an all but silent David Gaudencio. Then, without so much as a 'make yourselves at home', David had disappeared to somewhere at the back of the house, possibly the kitchen, with his young half-brothers and a hireling or two. Presumably to make some sort of last minute arrangements for the makeshift wedding feast.

In the time that the groom and his kinsman had been left in the front room to sit like patients at the doctor's office, Heathcliff Gaudencio and Rupert Giles had similarly failed to return. The young bride and her mother remained upstairs. God forbid they might have been given a few minutes to get to know each other, Wesley thought petulantly, even in the company of such chaperones.

When David and his little brothers finally returned, with strong tea and unusual china, Wesley ventured to ask if it might be possible for Amal and her mother to join them. “Call me old-fashioned,” he tried to joke, “but I feel rather odd being engaged to someone I've never met.”

“You feel odd?” David rejoined, just a bit too sharply, “Bloody Hell, how do you think I feel?” His words left a palpable tension in the air that the weak, obligatory forced laughter of all present did little to ease.

“Come on, Dave,” Peter entreated on Wesley's behalf. “We're all family here. Just go see if they want to come down.”

David glared at them both for such a long moment that it seemed as if he would say something, and probably nothing nice. His two little brothers exchanged an uneasy look. But at last he stood and without another word, tromped up the stairs, still looking distinctly put upon.

David didn't return any too quickly. Minutes passed. More than a few. The two young boys and the two grown men stared at one another across the coffee table. “So....,” Wesley ventured at last, “what's the weather like this time of year in Afghanistan?”

*****

It was suffocatingly hot. Sweltering. “Alright,” Gaudencio called out to his hirelings, “That'll do, thank you. You may go.” It was clear from the alacrity with which they moved to vacate the hanger that they understood his 'may' to mean 'must'. Plain to see Virgil's son was a man used to having his orders obeyed, and probably for good reason. He was not likely to tolerate insubordination. There would be consequences. Giles understood that. He regretted it. But the situation was what it was.

At any rate, at least now they were alone. Unless of course you counted 'Weatherby'. Gaudencio didn't flinch as he sliced into the meaty part of his own left palm with a pocket knife. Blood was required, naturally. They intended powerful magics. Both of them did. Though not in quite the same way or to entirely the same purpose. Giles only hoped their purposes were close enough that the Council would accept as a _fait accompli_ that which they would never have authorized.

Truth be told, he almost wished they wouldn't. What Gaudencio had said earlier in the evening about his telling use of the third person in reference to the Council was essentially true. Though he had handily succeeded in retaining his membership in the Outer Council, thanks almost entirely to Buffy, and though he remained heir apparent to the Weregelder Seat, despite himself; Giles felt less a part of the institution of the Watchers' Council of Britain than he ever had, even during the months he'd long ago spent in London as it's most determinedly prodigal son.

Knowing that they had willfully condemned his mother to death and that they were more than ready to consign his wife to the same fate whenever it suited their purpose, Giles felt more like a slave than a prince to this peculiar little underground nation. As it was, the Council's power over him and especially over Buffy gave him no choice but to do their bidding. A small part of him couldn't help but understand that the only way he would ever be able to free himself was if that same power gave him no choice but to disobey their commands. That he was at the Council's mercy only so long as he remained their humble servant.

*****

“Dr. Wilkinson,” the young nurse squeaked worriedly, “I think you'd better have another look at the Rosenberg girl. She's... well you'd just better see for yourself.”

Miriam sighed and followed Clair into the patient's room. Where she saw the patient, sound asleep. “Well?” she asked, frowning seriously at the young nurse, “What's the problem?” Ms. Rosenberg was moving around a bit and muttering unintelligibly in a mildly distressed tone, but it was nothing alarming. Just the restless sleep of a very worried and confused young woman. Miriam certainly hoped Clair had more to show her, otherwise she was prepared to be frustrated with this waste of her time.

“We can't wake her up!” Clair explained, her tone becoming strident, almost pleading. Her distress was so genuine that it gave Miriam pause. Clair might be a little green but she certain wasn't prone to histrionics. The physician was prepared to ask the nurse for further details when Clair volunteered, “But it gets weirder. Look!”

Clair pulled back the sheet and lifted the patient's gown to expose a distended abdomen. It was easily twice the size it had been when she'd been brought in less than a day ago. But before Miriam could speculate about the cause, the nurse showed her. Using her hand she put moderate pressure on the patient’s abdomen and move it slowly over the distended area. Something, an utterly unmistakable something, moved under the taunt skin, just exactly as if it were fleeing from that compressing hand.

“Good night!” Miriam gasped, astonished. “We need to get some blood work, and a new ultrasound. I've never seen anything like this.”

*****

“How many weeks along did you say you thought you were?” the white-coated youngster asked Joyce again, even more skeptically.

“6 weeks,” Joyce repeated. Buffy squeezed her hand, being silently supportive. They were now well past the 'why didn't you tell me stage.' This situation was much too serious for anything but total solidarity to prevail between the Summers women. They both had too many years of the opposite to regret and make up for already. A fact of which Joyce found she had to remind herself repeatedly in the next few minutes.

“So,” the girl probed, clinically cool, but with barely suspended disbelief, “that would mean your last menstrual period began what? March twelfth?”

“The tenth, actually,” Joyce mildly corrected and mainly confirmed, feeling oddly scrutinized.

“Hmm,” the young woman said to the clipboard in her hand, not bothering to look up. “Well, she conceded, your uterus _is_ enlarged. That combined with the heavy bleeding would more probably tend to suggest fibroids or some other type of intrauterine growths, but your scans don't seem to show anything unusual. Or at all really,” she all but mumbled, aside to her clipboard. “And of course, that wouldn't really explain the delayed menstruation, but cycles do tend to vary a bit more in length as we get a bit older, you know.”

Finally, Joyce thought she might be catching up, but she was far from sure. If so, she couldn't believe what she was hearing, it hardly made sense. “Wait a minute,” Buffy asked, clearly having the same thought and not at all respecting the fact that the question wasn't strictly hers to ask, that the answer didn't belong to her just because she wanted it, “are you saying she's not pregnant at all?”

“Ms. Summers,” the young doctor stated firmly, pointedly looking at Joyce at last, and even more pointedly not looking at Buffy, “We'll have the results of your blood work back from the lab in a little while, but I'm afraid, as things stand, I don't see any evidence of a recent, established, pregnancy. And while false positive results are rare, even with home test kits, it seems likely that what you've experienced is either a rare type of hormonal disturbance or possibly what we sometimes call a chemical pregnancy. That's when a fertilized egg fails to—”

“I know what it means!” Joyce cut her off indignantly. “But I already told you, I saw a doctor! I heard the heartbeat! What do you think I did? Imagined it? Made it up!?! You think I'm crazy or something!!!”

The young doctor took a small step back from her bedside and turned to Buffy. Quietly, but not quietly enough she asked, “Does you mother have a history of mental health problems, hospitalizations, anything like that?”

“No, not at all,” Buffy replied mock casually, her voice hard edged with vicarious anger. “I'm the one with the psych records. Maybe you want to check and see if I'm really pregnant too. Or,” Buffy went on, her tone hardening and sharpening as suddenly as a cat pouncing, grabbing the other young woman by the collar of her white coat “you could go and get a grownup doctor to help my mom right now.”

When the doctor screamed for security, Buffy was taken aback, startled by her over reaction. She didn't even register the fact that she had slammed her up against the wall, was holding her there by her collar, until she heard her mother pleading, “Buffy, Honey, no. Don't get yourself arrested again. Let's just go.”

Buffy took a deep breath and set the doctor on her feet, she felt a slight wave of dizziness overtake her, but she ignored it. “Go? Yeah,” she agreed, turning to offer Joyce a hand up. “Right, let's go.” They ignored the young doctor's bleating protests and the tromp of approaching security guards, making their way to the nearest exit as quickly as Joyce could manage, which wasn't quickly enough.

“Buffy, we have to stop,” Joyce pleaded, changing her mind. “They're catching up. We'll only make it worse.”

“Wrong,” Buffy corrected, lifting Joyce off her feet and into her arms, prepared to do the running for both of them. “If they catch me, I'll get arrested. Then my bond will get revoked...” she let the sentence trail off as they picked up speed and rushed through a nearby emergency exit, hopped over a high stone wall and began running through a long trail of twisting back allies into the dark London night. Joyce held her peace, understanding completely where that chain of events might lead.

They had to get to a subway station and out of this neighborhood, fast. Little enough had happened that if they got away, it would probably be left at that. But if the police made actual contact with them in any form, that was a downhill slide to Buffy ending up either a long term guest of the Queen or an international fugitive.

“Look, there!” Joyce said, pointing out the station ahead, it's sign sticking up from the huge square hole in the sidewalk. At the top of the stairs, Joyce insisted on getting to her feet. There was not a policemen or security guard in sight.

“You're weak,” Buffy tried to protest. But Joyce could feel her daughter swaying with the effort of balancing so much weight on an uneven surface.

“I'm fine,” Joyce insisted, as Buffy finally relented and put her down. “I'm not the one who's pregnant, remember?” Joyce wished she hadn't said that. She felt a strange sense of panic. Was there something wrong with her perception of reality? How could she (and her doctor) have been so mistaken?

At the bottom of the stairs, Joyce paused and looked back up. Buffy had made almost no progress at all. She was standing just a few steps down from the street. “Honey?” she called out worriedly. “Sweetie, are you alright?”

“I'm fine,” Buffy gasped breathlessly, still hanging on to the rail, clearly needing it for support, still winded from taking a long distance sprint with a full grown woman in her arms.

“Are you sure?” Joyce asked, becoming even more worried.

“Yeah,” Buffy began to insist, now impatient as well as winded, forcing herself to take several steps forward, “I just... I need...” Buffy's head swam and the world around her seemed to waiver unsteadily. She persevered, reaching out a foot for the rippling step beneath her and a hand for the swinging rail at her side. She missed both, and suddenly she was flying forward.

The beeping of the hospital machinery woke Buffy up. For a moment, she felt a suffocating sense of panic, sure that she had been caught, that she would find herself cuffed to a bed, awaiting a police escort to some seriously one star accommodations. But she didn't feel any cuffs. And when she opened her eyes, she didn't see any cuffs either. Besides the gentle, relieved tone in which her mother was talking to her as well as the warmth and thanks she was sharing with the people in scrubs pretty much proved they were not under arrest.

Clearly, they had made it to the underground station that Buffy remembered Joyce pointing out in the distance. And after whatever had happened to put a blank spot in her memory and give her a splitting headache, they had apparently made it to yet another hospital. Having settled that issue in her mind, Buffy asked the one other question that concerned her at that moment. “Mom, is my baby okay?”

“Yes,” Joyce replied, suddenly seeming strangely nervous. “Honey, they are, and that's the important thing to remember. They are both just fine.”

 


	10. Mysterious Ways

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unlikely heroes to the rescue? Maybe, maybe not.

The hot, close, dry air in the hanger was becoming hard to breathe. Heathcliff mopped sweat from his brow and tried not to think too much, to keep his mind focused on the task at hand, on preparing the incense, candles and other necessary instruments of ritual, to ignore everything that came after that, in the hanger and most especially in his father's house afterward.

But inevitably the moment arrived when no more preparation was possible. It was nearly ten. Close to the time that Lilah Morgan would be preparing to perform the now useless spell that would thwart their efforts to return her to her own body. Too close. It was time for action.

“Well?” Rupert demanded dryly. His half-amused expression was nakedly, cruelly ironic and contemptuous. Heathcliff tried to ignore him and keep an eye on him at the same time. He doubted that Rupert would move against him overtly, but there could be plenty of opportunities for him to 'accidentally' bollox this up, which he'd certainly feel justified in doing, and would probably get away with. As usual. The self-righteous git.

“Just you keep your eyes trained on _that_ spot and your gun ready,” Heathcliff ordered the other Watcher harshly. With a frosty glare, Rupert obliged. For now. At least it meant that he turned his back to Heathcliff and the body, that he couldn't watch them disapprovingly. That should help a little in his doing what he would almost certainly have to do. Heathcliff knew the forces he was dealing with. And he couldn't afford to waste time having illusions that the worst could be avoided.

He would wait as long as possible. That was the only decent thing to do. But when the moment came, he had to be ready to act immediately. And for that, an all together different kind of preparation was necessary. Thank God he'd been paid in more than just cash for this latest load of heroin. He'd popped one of those little blue pills—the ones boys back home in Kandahar were so crazy about—as soon as they'd been delivered, knowing he'd probably need it tonight.

Now, as he began to chant the powerful incantations that would be necessary to drag Lilah's soul and Weatherby's body across the aether and around the boundaries of time and space to this sweltering simulated hell, Heathcliff sat down in the middle of the sacred circle next to the woman's breathing body, unbuckled his trousers and took himself in hand. He tried simultaneously to think arousing thoughts and to keep his mind on the magic he was doing. It was difficult and confusing.

He tried thinking of his penis as a magic wand, rhythmically rubbing it in time to his chanting. But that only made him feel exposed and ridiculous. The two things just didn't go together. Especially when murder was such a major part of what his spell casting ultimately intended. There was nothing less sexy to think about than murder. Unless it was rape.

Heathcliff closed his eyes and tried not to think at all, to exist only in the physical, in the droning of his own voice, the stroking of his hand, the response of his penis to his own caress. Finally, at least, it was responding a little. And that was a good thing because the magical forces around him were really gearing up now. Both the ones he was sending forth to seek the other halves of this split being lying on the floor next to him and the contrary forces that were working against him, working to pull her away.

Heathcliff wrapped his arms around Lilah's body and held her tight as he waged war on those contrary forces, shouting his incantations to the heavens, his tone somewhere between demand and supplication. It was working. He could see a specter of Weatherby's form glimmering into view at exactly the spot he'd intended. The spot Rupert was watching, gun in hand, features set and grim. Very much as though he intended to go through with it. Thank God. At least Heathcliff's degradation might not be for nothing.

Speaking of which, he had better get on with it. Lilah's body was... not dematerializing exactly, but feeling less and less substantial in his embrace. Meanwhile, there was no indication of Wetherby's soul coming forth from her at all, and _his_ body, even at it's most present moments, was nowhere near substantial enough to take a bullet. Heathcliff knew he needed to step it up a notch.

Chanting louder, harder and more passionately than he had ever done in his life, infusing his words with his soul-deep determination to kill Weatherby and to save Lilah, Heathcliff pulled the woman's blouse up over her face and tried not to think of her as someone he might have worked with or met on a train. He focused on her breasts in isolation, sliding his hands inside her bra cups to squeeze them and rubbing his thumbs against her nipples.

The magic was working. He could feel it working. He just needed a little more time. He needed Lilah's body to stay put and not to go flying off to Arizona in search of her soul. He lay on top of her, holding her down, pinning her against the hanger floor, trying to pin her to an exact moment in space and time. But it wasn't enough. He knew what she really needed him to do. Fortunately, the warmth and the feel of her body, combined with the headiness of the magic and the effects of that little blue pill had made him ready to do what he had to do to hold on to her.

The woman's body was sprawled on her back beneath him, legs wide apart in a false semblance of invitation. He pulled her skirt up to her waist and hooked his fingers inside her undergarments, ready to pull them down to her ankles. Dear God he was hot for her, ready to be satisfied. Stuffing down the though that his very desire alone made him every inch a rapist, Heathcliff pressed on, anxious to commit the offending act, to have committed it, to no longer be able to fail in this assignment because of his reluctance to commit it.

Trying not to think, 'Dear God forgive me' or any such nonsense, Heathcliff pulled Lilah's nylons and nickers down along the smooth curves of her unresisting body until at last her sacred secret parts lay exposed before him. He could not help but think of the three other women he had seen lying thus bared beneath him. Each in a separate previous life, in which each had been his other half, one way or another.

Somehow, this seemed to make a lie of all that. Dorothy lying in his arms, sharing the foolhardy optimism of their mutual youth, sure that everything would work out for the best in this best of all possible worlds. Malailai wincing as he gently touched the scars of other men's sins, coming to his embrace gradually, learning slowly over time to trust hope and believe in love again. Constance, more his partner than either of his wives could ever be, his comrade in arms, clinging to him in the face of death, not desperately, but defiantly, stealing as much life for herself as she could get in a Slayer's brief time.

For a moment, these thoughts threatened to spoil everything. Thinking of all those whom he had loved, to whom he had sworn forever and meant it every single time; Heathcliff felt his carefully manufactured sexual arousal beginning to wane. Steeling himself, determined to go through with it now, while there was still a chance, he raised himself up onto his knees and pushed his trousers further down to give himself more mobility. He fell back on top of Lilah, breathless, determined, barely able to gasp out the words of his chant.

Suddenly, for a moment, Lilah seemed to grow more solid, more real beneath him. She was the only woman in the universe, and he was the only man. This act was all that mattered. If had to be done. He would do it. He must, though the heavens fall.

 **“NYMBA YA SANAA!”** The voice ripped through the hanger with all the rage and authority of an offended god. Heathcliff's intended magic, in fact all of his intentions, seemed to fall in upon themselves and crumple. Then the universe went dark, and there was nothing.

*****

“Now What?” Doug hissed in Faith's ear. He sounded pissed but his eyes were filled with nothing but unmistakable terror.

Faith attempted to shrug, she really did. She even had a cool, unconcerned word to go with it, 'improvise'. But she couldn't say it. Death in the form of five massive vampires was closing in on them from all sides, and there was no point in being cool anymore. No one to bluff. Even if she'd had a half decent plan for this, she couldn't have told him so. Anything she said now was being overheard by their demonic enemies, just something else for the bastards to laugh about over their dead bodies.

This was it, Faith realized. To get out of this alive would take a miracle. And somehow, she thought, if God was that interested in her, he'd have found a way to show it before now. Weirdly, she didn't feel that scared, or even that regretful. It was almost a relief.

Not that she minded being a hunted fugitive or even having Doug for a traveling buddy. But Faith Whatevername being granted mystical super human powers and a sacred, secret mission from the powers in charge of the universe? Come on. That had to be a mislead. Especially after how she had used her powers so far. Dead give away. Just a little something to keep the story from being too predictable, from getting too boring. Now, with death staring her in the face, Faith realized she'd half known it, had been waiting for the punchline or moral or whatever all along.

A smile curled the the upper lip of the Not-So-Chosen-One. But that only lasted a moment.

The vampires closed on them. The foremost easily blocked the blow Faith aimed at his head and pulled her arm forward, yanking he shoulder out of joint, making her drop her stake. Others seized her from behind. Faith cried out in horror and pain as razor sharp claws and teeth tore at her flesh, slicing through denim and skin like so many spider webs. She lost track of what was happening to Doug, barely noticing when his screams stopped. “No-no-no-no-no!” she keened, half praying, “Oh God, Oh God, please no!”

Then suddenly, new screams came, in a blaze of heat and light. Dust showered down on Faith as she tried to wipe the hair and blood away from her eyes to see what was going on. There was shouting and heavy footing fleeing. Was she being rescued?

“The Beast,” she mumbled without really meaning to speak. It was the only explanation. Who else would have enough use for Faith to want to help her out of a jam like this and the power to actually do it. But when Faith's field of vision cleared enough to recognize the face of the person standing over her, ridiculously oversized weapon in hand, it wasn't Glory she saw or even Ben.

“Get up!” the little old man commanded, in a voice that somehow rang with authority despite being gasped out in ragged breaths. “Help me get him in the van before those bastards come back.”

*****

Thunder. Lightning. Not fire. Not yet. But the thought of fire. It wasn't exactly as though Willow and Hecate were floating through the world, seeing yet unseen, like Ebeneezer Scrooge and the Ghost of Christmas Past. But, all things considered, it was close enough.

Except that past, present, and future were even more mixed up, will-bes and may-bes bleeding together in the overlapping shadows. And in those shadows, Willow saw Flood and Fire. She saw blood. The blood of life and the blood of death. A choice then?

The goddess smiled. Her smile was not kind, not beautiful. I was hard and jagged like rough cut diamonds. Not just a choice. A bargain. A life for a life? No. That would be too easy, the Goddess teased, and yet too hard. The deal she offered would be harder to resist. The death of one who was all but dead already would buy back a possibility. The life which was never intended would not have to be ended or endured. It would never have existed to begin with.

*****

When Heathcliff finally awoke with a groan and found himself belted into his own passenger seat with Rupert Giles at the wheel beside him, his first utterance was a string of impressively colorful curses, followed by the demand, “Rupert, what in God's name have you done?”

Giles smiled, amused at the phrasing, feeling quietly triumphant and deeply justified. “I've just saved you from a fate worse than death,” he replied dryly.

“If you don't begin to explain yourself this instant,” his superior replied coolly, “we won't need to find a worse fate for you. Death will do just fine.”

“I found a way around our predicament at that the last moment,” Giles explained stiffly, using half-truths and calculated indignation to project a thin veil of palpably false innocence. “I'm sorry I didn't have time to warn you.”

“I'll just bet you are,” Heathcliff sneered. “Where's Weatherby?” he half shouted.

“Regrettably, he escaped,” Rupert answered glibly. “After knocking us both unconscious, of course. And you needn't be so indignant about it. Weatherby was my friend once, or near enough; and we both know he's done no more to deserve the Council's rough justice than you or I have. Who knows, the way things are headed, we may need every hand we can find before all is said and done, even his.”

“And the girl?”

Something about that exact labeling rubbed Rupert a bit wrong, but he couldn't put his finger on exactly why, so he ignored the feeling. “Safely winging her way back to California,” he said instead, “As I heartily wish I were. I think I've had quite enough of London for one lifetime.”

“Yes,” Heathcliff agreed wryly. “I know exactly what you mean. But just so I can explain it correctly for the benefit of my brothers on the Inner Council, how exactly did you manage this heroic rescue of yours?”

Rupert affected a shrug. “In the course of my work back in the States, I happened to come across an ancient Masai transpossession ritual. It was meant for transferring the spirits of vicious predatory animals from one body to another, so naturally I assumed it would work on both Weatherby and anyone remotely associated with Wolfram and Hart. And happily, so it has. Problem solved. But for Weatherby's regrettable escape, of course.”

But Heathcliff was far from satisfied. “I swear, Rupert,” he huffed, “I've never heard anyone talk so much out of both sides of his mouth as you, and I'm including in that all my brothers on the Inner Council. How can you defend Weatherby with your sanctimonious there-but-for-the-grace-of-God-go-you-and-I and then in your very next breath condemn him as a vicious, predatory animal.”

“Huh,” Rupert rejoined, a filigree of feigned innocence overlaying his biting sarcasm, “am I to understand that you see some contradiction in that? I certainly wouldn't have thought so. Perhaps you can explain it to me on the way to your daughter's wedding.”


	11. Gifts and Bargains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wise man once said, 'you can't always get what you want'. But sometimes you can. And then you have to decide: What are you willing to pay for it?

Dinner managed to be late, cold and rushed all at the same time. And at that, they had to eat without the father of the bride and one of the groom's designated kinsmen. Possibly, their presence would have only made the meal more awkward. But it was hard to imagine how.

Silverware clanked. Nervous conversation faltered. Every time Wesley dared to say a word or two to Amal, her mother glared at him over her head while she smiled unconvincingly and mumbled a polite, noncommittal word or two in response.

“Ah... so, Amal,” he ventured again when the conversation between Peter and David about the exchange rate between the pound and the dollar inevitably petered out. “Your father tells me you lived in the United States for a time. What was that like?”

For a moment, it seemed to Wesley as if he had broken the proverbial ice at last. Alma's eyes brightened and a genuine smile crossed her face for the first time. But the moment was short-lived. Amal lowered her gaze to her folded hand in her lap, staring past her nearly untouched plate. “That was a long time ago,” she said softly, sadly. Malalai glared harder than ever.

This time Wesley couldn't help but glare back. He was starting to hate this woman. What did she want from him? How did she expect him to behave? It wasn't as though he had climbed up the lattice to spirit the child away. They were practically forcing her on him.

“Still,” Wesley persisted, “it sounds a bit of an adventure. I've never been myself. Where did you live.”

Amal bit her lower lip and looked at her mother. That was supposed to be alluring, the biting of the lower lip. Naked and half naked models did it in the name of selling everything from designer clothes to pornographic magazines. Some how on Alma, it looked a little too authentic. She wasn't teasing. She really was a lost, overwhelmed little girl.

At last Malalai's frown softened. She raised her eyebrows a tad and cocked her head as if to say, 'well why not at this point.'

“We lived in St. Louis,” Amal said, barely above a whisper, her eyes lighting up again just a little. Her tone was mysterious and proprietary, as if she were describing a secret, fairy country that she alone had discovered. And so it began. She described her school, her friends, and (clearly first in her affections) her grandparents. It was soon clear that, to her, their home was a place of almost mystical happiness and security, a place to which she longed to return.

Just as it was becoming subtly clear, without her having to say any such thing, that she would never truly feel at home in Afghanistan. Malalai's frown was deepening, becoming more worried again. Wesley tried to ignore her. He kept his eyes focused on Amal, kept her talking. Encouraging her to share every fascinating detail. And he was fascinated, listening raptly to each new revelation, though it was hard to say if the expectant feeling growing in the pit of his stomach was one of hope or dread.

But whatever he felt about what he was coming to know about his soon-to-be wife, at least he _was_ finally coming to know her a bit, getting a sense of her as a person. And the person he was sensing was not so alien as he had feared. Not a fanatical, subservient Wahhabi girl from Afghanistan, but a bright-eyed kid from St. Louis who wanted to be famous and important and happy. Just like every American.

On the one hand, he felt rather like Phileas Fogg finding out that the 'Indian widow' about to be immolated in front of him was actually, for all intents and purposes, an English schoolgirl. It strengthened his conviction that was what happening here tonight was deeply, terribly wrong. At the same time, it was a relief just to know that he would not be totally alone in Afghanistan, cut off from anyone with a remotely western, or modern sense of the world.

Wesley seized upon Rupert's advice from earlier in the evening and tried to nurture that sense of relief, to share it with her. He made the most of every small point of common interest and experience, and then some. Laughed at film references he only half understood. He did his best to reassure her that he too was not so strange after all. What other choice did he have? He was not here to save this girl from the fire but to jump on the pyre with her, to convince her that staying there would somehow be alright.

“Wesley?” Amal said in a small, unsure voice, looking at him worriedly, expectantly, her smile wavering. Damn. He had dropped his end of the conversation. Retreated too far into his own head again.

“Oh... right, well... I'm sorry erm... darling...” the endearment was a mistake. It sounded too stilted, too uncertain, too generic, too everything, Wesley decided; as a wave of miserable self loathing washed over him. Why couldn't he be good with people like his mother or at least good at moving them around like his father?

“So... I...” he continued, still tripping over his tongue. Still hating himself both for trying to smooth talk this poor, innocent girl and for failing. “I was just thinking. I should give Rupert and He—my—er—Perhaps I should give your father a call. See when they might be able to wrap up their... ah urgent... erm... whatever it is.”

Amal's face crinkled into an unpleasant yet sympathetic expression. Everyone else at the table just looked embarrassed, worried, or annoyed. Not Amal. She felt sorry for him. Wesley sighed inwardly. At least it was a start. So they weren't going to be Romeo and Juliet or even Rick and Elsa. At least they might be able to manage a bit of genuine friendship. That is, a malign inner voice taunted Wesley derisively, as long as she didn't mind being raped.

'Just don't think of it like that,' Peter had cautioned him in a low tone on the drive down from London proper, echoing Rupert's advise and Heathcliff's sentiments in one. The unanimous opinion of his fellow Watchers was that, Amal, being so young and suggestible, would see the circumstances of their marriage however he seemed to see them.

Wesley was no longer so sure that she would be quite as mailable as that, but he had to try. If there was one thing he had learned from their brief conversation, it was that Amal needed to know that she was not alone in this at least as desperately as he did. She needed to feel that Wesley was with her, that whatever they were going through was happening to both of them, and not something he was ganging up with her parents to do to her.

It was plainly written on her face, Wesley realized, as he took her hand in both of his and kissed it, despite the looks from her mother and brothers. As he called her 'darling' far more convincingly and asked her to continue with her tales of far, exotic Missouri. He saw what she needed to believe. What she wanted this to be between them. That most American of dreams. Suddenly, against all odds, at the darkest hour when all hope seemed lost, true love. The kind that makes everything alright.

'Dear God,' Wesley prayed silently, but as sincerely as he had ever prayed in his life. 'If I am to marry this girl, please let us be married. Let us grow to love and depend on one another and never ever let her feel that what happens here tonight is just a transaction or a sacrifice. Please God, whether our fathers sneer or smile, in her eyes, if only in her eyes, just this once, let me be the hero.'

*****

“A hero? Don't make me laugh, Meatstick,” Glory pulled the wriggly coward in his loud, over accessorized costume up from behind the garishly draped folding table. His chair clattered to the floor as she held him aloft by the collar. “You're nothing. An insect whose only significance lies in being in my way.”

“Look, Lady,” the gibbering fool managed to choke out, though he was near to pissing himself with fear. “I know I'm not a hero! I'm an actor! It's just a costume, you know, for their fun and my profit?” he indicated the stunned silent crowd around them. “They're fans. Of my show.”

Glory rolled her eyes and tossed the idiot across the room. With so many to choose from, she wanted a better brain to suck. Besides, the wet cracking sound he made as he slammed into the far wall and fell lifeless to the floor served as a perfect warning to the rest of them.

There was a general intake a breath. Some screamed, though most didn't dare. A few fainted. There were always a few. Humans could be such wimps some times.

“Oh Most Magnificently Violent One?” A simpering, cringing minion mewled in her ear, timorously seeking her attention. Well he wasn't getting it. Not right now anyway. Mama had things to say, things that needed to get out.

Glory made a noise of frustration somewhere between a grunt and a growl. “Comic-Con!?!” she shrieked, stamping her foot hard enough to crack the concrete floor of the convention center. “Why would those Infernal Monks hide my key in such a ridiculous place full of such annoyingly boring people? Just to torture me by making me spend time with these losers among losers!?!

“They're like humanity squared, y'know? With their pathetic, insipid need to feel smart and creative and special, to be excluded just so they can belong. And why will that horrible grinding noise of bladed rain like diamonds on the roof not stop and let me think my way out of this madhouse!?!”

Suddenly, or maybe not so suddenly, Glory became disoriented. The world swam before her. Without being clear on the sequence of events leading up to the moment, she found her fingers wriggling joyfully inside a common but mildly interesting human mind. Sighing with relief, she looked around her. There were more broken human bodies than she remembered, also more demonic minions gathered around.

“As I was starting to say, Oh Glorious One,” Drek was prattling on, amused at his own half-witted pun. “The uh... _good news_ ,” he steepled his grimy fingers nervously, a fearful tremble underlying his cheerful, almost sing-song tone.

“Out with it!” Glory demanded, all patience gone.

“Well... we were able to apprehend the Monk whom we followed here, and to ascertain that he is in fact the last of his kind....” Drek's voice trailed off and he looked around as if for support. His brothers and sisters of the Order of Scabby Filth studiously avoided his gaze, averting their eyes every which way. One or two whistled or hummed softly.

“What about my key!” Glory demanded, stomping her foot again so that the floor shook, wares fell from stalls and tables, and there was a general sound of miserable apprehension from the masses of captive humanity.

“He did not appear to have it with him, Oh Breathtakingly Beautiful and also Literally Breathtaking One. Upon vigorous inquiry, he represented to us that it had been sent far from the monastery days, possibly weeks, before we arrived there. He did not admit that it was near here, but the horror his eyes betrayed him when I suggested it. Even more so when I suggested that it might have been made human and that the Slayer was somehow a part of hiding it.”

“Of course it's near here!” Glory fumed. We're what? An hour's drive from the Very Spot?”

The foul minion tilted his head back and forth like a metronome. “A bit less, I'd say. Perhaps forty to fifty minutes depending on traffic. Although, maybe at the peak of rush hour—Gahg!” Drek gurgled in astonishment as he was caught by the throat in Glory's powerful grip.

“Not the point,” she chided him coolly. Not enraged, just annoyed. “The point is that she lied to me. To me!” Glory's emotional state turned on a dime and soon she was punctuating her sentences with blows and thrown objects again.

“She swore! To _me_ , that she knew nothing about the Monks, or where my key was, that she'd only heard about it from those Retro-Geek Knights! She promised she'd come down to Snoozydale to help me look for it, that she'd lure the whole Slayer/Watcher Whose-it into taking my side against the other end and the middle!

“And she was working with them the whole time! That ungrateful little nothing! Well, fine then, stab me in the back, will ya? That's okay. Prick all you like Slayrunt because this girl does not bleed.

“Drek! Bring me what's left of that Monk! I'll ring everything he knows about the Slayer and where she's gone with my key out of him if I have to pull out his intestines inch by inch and stretch them from one end of this Coliseum knock off to the other. Then I'm going to go get my key back and put my fist through The Slayer's heart. And I dare any so called 'Hero' on this miserable little mudball to try and stop me!”

*****

Doug's eyes opened in the dimness and slowly began to adjust. Not much to see. There was some kind of rough carpeting under his face. It Chafed against his skin every time the floor was jostled up and down or side to side. Which was a lot. He groaned miserably, more because the world sucked than because of how much his entire body hurt. Which was also a lot.

“Hey, what's up doc?” Faith asked, trying to sound flip, but actually sounding both relieved and worried.

“Well, let's see,” he grumbled, “I thought I might have died, but since your here too, and it's not hot...” In fact, Doug noticed, it was a bit chilly. “Hmm, don't suppose this might be purgatory? I mean, I've heard of _Hell_ on wheels...”

“Asshole,” Faith said. But there was a smile in her voice when she said it.

“Okay, now what?” asked another female voice, “Where are we going?” The voice was high and pinched. In some way that was difficult to articulate, it communicated both superiority of rank and helpless dependence. It was almost but not quite the demanding interrogative of a spoiled child.

But it wasn't Doug or Faith she was depending on or making demands of. “We'll go to Rupert's,” a winded, reedy male voice gasped out; exhausted, but suffused with comfortable, well worn authority. The coughing fit that followed sort of undercut that a little. But Doug was in no shape to play whose in charge and why. He didn't even ask who the Hell Rupert was. He was so tired. He needed medical attention he realized vaguely, and possibly blood.

Doug's eyes popped open and he struggled to set up. Wasn't there a St. Rupert of something? “No hospitals!” he insisted emphatically, fighting bone-deep terror. Being identified would spell death for the Ericsons as surely as any gang of vampires.

Faith helped Doug sit up, but when he tried to make his way towards the front of the van, she held him back. Gently. Effortlessly. “It's okay, Doug. Just chill. These guys are on our side.”

Doug groaned and rubbed his head. But it hurt to move his arm, enough that he stopped rubbing and let it fall limp at his side. “Our side of what?” he half demanded, feeling annoyed with her cryptic, somewhat amused tone.

“Of the Battle between Good and Evil?” said the other girl, the driver, “I mean, hello? Duh!” From where he was sitting, Doug couldn't see her roll her eyes, but the harsh edge to her voice and the toss of her sable mane made the same point clearly enough.

She was a cheerleader. High school. Had to be. She wore the outfit and the attitude. The contrast between her and the man riding shotgun (actually it looked more like a spear gun) couldn't have been sharper. He seemed as old, tired, and calmly certain as she seemed young, hyper, and defensively brash.

“Yeah,” Doug grumbled, feeling a little bit pissy himself, “but which side are we on?” Okay, more than a little bit. Doug felt distinctly disgruntled, but for reasons he couldn't quite pin down. Although, having no idea what the hell was going on definitely had something to do with it.

Evidently, though, he was the only one bothered by that. Faith was kicked back like they were among old friends. A first in his experience. “Hey,” she corrected him sharply. “Don't be such an asshole.” This time there was no smile in her voice. “These people just saved our asses. The least you can do is not be a dick, alright?”

Doug settled back against the wall of the van, closed his eyes and sighed. “Right. Sure. Sorry,” he mumbled. “Getting my ass kicked puts me in a crappy mood, that's all. You know what would make me feel better though? Hearing who you are, where we're going, what you actually want with us, and _why_ I should believe that you're on 'our side'.”

*****

“I'm afraid what you ask is too much.” the voice boomed sonorously, like a cheap special effect.

“But surely, for someone of your magnificent powers...” Ethan felt the smile tighten on his face as he struggled to find the words to get what he needed so desperately.

“Silence!” the Demon commanded him theatrically. Against the inclinations of every fiber of his being, Ethan shut his mouth. “I did not say I was unable,” It fumed. “But why should I do such a thing for you? What can you possibly give me that is of comparable value.”

“Well, I...Truly...” Truly he realized, there was nothing he could offer that would even come close. But, of course, he couldn't say that. The Demon waited expectantly. Ethan smiled as best he could. The effect was weak at best. “There is one thing,” he finished his haltingly begun sentence much more smoothly, “or 'person' if you prefer.”

The Demon sighed impatiently. “Thing will do fine as far as I'm concerned, for you too as far as that goes,” he drawled out boredly. “Not that I'm saying I'll take it. But it does have uses I suppose. Especially considering the bloodline it comes from. I'm sure I could find some ritual purpose for blood from the veins of the Council of Rome. Very well, I will take the child and you will have what you ask for.”

“Oh, thank God!” Ethan exclaimed without thinking. His heart squeezed itself into a tiny knot of panic, but the Demon only laughed. “Sorry,” Ethan said somehow both brashly and sheepishly, a little ironic smile playing upon his lips. “Force of habit.”

*****

Buffy was quiet on the drive back to the hotel. For once, Joyce didn't even try to draw her into any conversation. What was there to say? This situation was imposable. And yet it was. Besides, it was nearly midnight and they were both exhausted anyway.

As the taxi drove away and the two women turned to go inside, though, Joyce realized there was one thing she did have to say after all. “Lets not tell your father about this,” she suggested with a desperately sunny casualness. As if it were a small, friendly request. “At least not right away. He's had so much to process, and I think he's already not handling things well.”

There was a moment of not-talking as they dragged themselves into the elevator and waited for the aging doors to lumber together and shut. Joyce began to worry that her daughter might disagree. But no. Buffy was just weary of her mother's needless advice. “Mom,” she replied at last, in a voice like tired, heavy eyes rolling impatiently, “Believe me, that's the last thing I would ever want to do. I'm not even sure how I'm going to tell Giles.”

Which was a good point. In more ways than one. For the first time all night, Joyce had an actual though about Brian. And what she felt was so much relief it curled into guilt around the edges.

It wasn't as though she could tell him what had actually happened, even if she wanted to. He certainly wouldn't have believed her. The only part he could possibly comprehend was that she was no longer pregnant. There was no way to explain that his child was, nevertheless, coming into the world anyway.

Which meant she didn't have to. She was free to invite him to take his antiques and leave without ever having to see him again. Hence guilt. But also, and even more deeply, relief.

It was as though she'd been given her life back, Joyce realized. She hadn't let herself understand just how little she wanted a life with Brian after all until it had suddenly become possible to have the opposite of that without breaking commitments and expectations for which she could be judged.

But this gift of freedom that had been given to her did not come free to everyone. Buffy was only seventeen. Giles was at a dead end in his career and far too old to be starting over from scratch. The last thing they needed was a second child to raise. They hardly needed the first.

The thought of adoption fluttered through Joyce's mind. But the idea made her feel so tired. It was scary enough facing motherhood again at her age when she had expected to have a loving (or even grudging) partner at her side. The prospect a being a single mom all over again, from square one, was more than Joyce could handle, and she knew it.

But, she would be a good grandmother, Joyce resolved. The best in the world. That would be enough, wouldn't it? It had to be. It was what she could do.

And, after all, she persuaded herself, if there was anyone who owed her such a enormous favor as to take on that responsibility on her behalf, it was Rupert Giles. And Buffy, well... Buffy was Buffy. If there was one thing she could do it was to handle very strange and difficult things.

“It's all going to be fine,” Joyce said aloud, probably more than once, still working on her sense of conviction. She stopped short of asking if Giles really needed to be told the truth at all. She knew better.

“Well, thank God we made it home without any creature sightings anyway,” Buffy half agreed, half grumbled as they stepped into the suit and heard the heavy door shut reassuringly behind them. “If there is one thing I don't need tonight it is one more surprise to deal with.”

As she said this, Joyce saw something that took her... well... by surprise. And then she was aiming impatient, imaginary eye rolls at herself. What was so surprising? She should have expected this.

Hank and Mitzie's clothes were scattered all over the living-room floor. Of course they were. Where else would they be? Bothering to put them anywhere else would have been a sign of concern for the feelings of others or courtesy at the very least. That wouldn't be like Hank at all.

Hank Summers had the amazing ability to sail through life never fully taking into account how his actions might affect anyone else. Always letting you know he could 'feel your pain' while at the same time doing exactly what worked out best for him. It was a gift really. One Joyce had never possessed and sometimes envied.

Realization settle heavily across Joyce's shoulders. One of the children growing inside Buffy's body was not Buffy's child or Giles's either. It was Joyce's. And with or without Brian, regardless of whether she was called 'Mom' or 'Grandma', hell and gone from any consideration at all about what Hank was doing with Mitzie or what anyone had previously done to whom, she had to shoulder that responsibility.

“Oh great,” Buffy groused, catching sight of the scattered clothes at last, each set complete enough to leave nothing to doubt. “Just what this family needs. More drama.”

Joyce yawned deeply and authentically. “There doesn't have to be drama.” She pointed out. “We could both just go to bed.”

“Ah,” Buffy agreed with a mixture of genuine relief and ironic cheerfulness, “a sensible solution. Score one for Team Mom.”

Team Mom. It had a nice ring to it. Speaking of sensible solutions. A recollection of the roadside restaurant psychic and her wedding day prediction intruded upon Joyce's thoughts, but she set it forcefully aside. Even if Buffy and Giles really were headed for an eventual divorce, that was a problem for another day. It was like her Grandfather always said. 'Never borrow trouble. Just about anybody will give you more than you want of that for free.'

*****

She was dressed about the way you would expect a Parisian Vampire Queen to be dressed. A red and black motif. Sweeping velvet cape. High winged collar. Tight bodice. Sheer stockings. Yards of old-fashioned lace. Her blond hair was piled high enough to hide a birdcage inside, finished off at the ends with tight, bouncy little curls, looking very late Versailles. For the love of Christmas! She even had a little black silk fan. Too perfect.

Warren looked up from the security monitor. “Show her into the East Reception Room,” he instructed a minion haughtily. “And see that she is offered anything she needs but kept waiting without it anyway.” He managed to keep a straight face until the servant had gone to do as he was told, but the minute the door closed, he couldn't stand it any longer. He turned to his two companions grinning, rubbing his hands together with glee.

“I knew this day would come!” he exclaimed, followed by a long peel of what could only be described as evil laughter. Chris and Trina exchanged an open look of skepticism. “All right,” Warren admitted, “Not 'knew it' in the sense of having the slightest idea that it would ever actually happen, but still... This is just plain perfect. All mightier than thou and here she comes crawling to me for what Mister Bleach-Blond Victorian Relic can't give her.

“I think I'll keep the Prom Princess waiting about half an hour, maybe forty-five minutes. By then she'll be itching for what I've got so bad she'll beg to serve my every whim just to get it. And then, Spikey Boy, it's payback time!”

“Yeah, well,” Trina said grimly, “just don't forget what the whole point of this is and ruin it by trying to make her suck your cock or something.”

Warren made an unconvincing show of pshawing that idea. Implying that the very suggestion was absurd. His two partners shared a much more serious look of disbelief behind his back. They both knew him better than that. Warren was every kind of greedy and selfish. And as long as he was in a position to let his appetites rule their joint destiny, their rise to the top of the vampire world could never be anything but short-lived.

“You see?” Trina said pointedly the moment Warren finally left the room. She pinned Chris with her gaze.

He dropped his eyes down and to the side to avoid hers. “You're right he admitted. There's no more time. We need to meet with Spike. And fast.”

*****

Lighting flashed. Thunder rolled. A tree limb broke loose and clattered to the balcony with a horrible crash, knocking a deckchair forcefully against the glass, shattering it, sending it tinkling to the floor inside and out. Shutters banged. Curtains blew.

“Hey!” Willow shouted at the goddess inside her room inside her head. “What's the matter with you!?! Now the whole rooms gonna get soaked.”

The goddess was impatient. Unconcerned. Annoyed. Almost bored. She was ready to have an answer.

“Don't rush me!” Willow shouted. “I need to think!”

No good. This could not be solved by thinking. It was about desire, need. More than that it was about taking sides. Which would it be? Grasp the power to order the world as she desired or cling to His childish notions of what was right?

“But this has nothing to do with Him!” Willow objected. “It's me! I can't just let my mom die to get something I want.”

But you do not love her. So why not?

“Because! She doesn't belong to me! Her life is not mine to give! And she's my mom!”

Then you have decided? I should depart and leave you with the both of them? The sense of tone behind this last idea defined disingenuous. The goddess was mocking her, but her threat of abandonment was also serious.

“Wait! What? No, no, no, I—I'm thinking!”

The goddess laughed at her inconsistency. Willow could hardly blame her.

The storm continued to rage impatiently. Elsewhere in the house the rats squeaked nervously in their cage, all crowding close to their mother.

The goddess smiled unpleasantly inside Willow's consciousness. Here. Let me make it easy for you. Suddenly, a horrible bolt of lightning split the night sky. Turning at an improbable angle, it shattered the window of the former spare room in which Sheila now lay in her unnatural repose.

“No!” Willow screamed, a second before the massive electrical current struck her mother's limp body, making it arch and flop against the bed. When it stopped, a few seconds later, Willow was still screaming.

There, the goddess informed her smugly. Now you don't even have to make a choice. Your mother is dead. I'm willing to accept her sacrifice as the basis of a covenant between us and to give you the additional blessing of never having gotten pregnant in the first place. And that in itself is quite a gift, considering that that wretched fetus has already grown to the point that it could be born right now and live to be a Supreme Court Justice.

“You killed her.” Willow was not disbelieving. It was a matter of fact statement. It was just that in light of that fact, nothing else seemed important enough to say.

Hecate was unapologetic. Gods could do that. Say yes, she advised calmly. The price has already been paid. I stand ready to take away your mistake and all it's consequences. I'm offering you salvation from a situation you have brought entirely upon yourself. All you have to do is accept it. All you have to do is say yes.


	12. But Thinking Makes It So

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the night of Wesley and Amal's wedding, the 'happy couple' as well as other people and things find themselves in dificult but perhaps not entirely negative circumstances. Or maybe that's just the only thing they have left to tell themselves. Maybe.

Wesley hardly paid attention to the ceremonies as such. The contracts, which were in Farsi, he signed without reading, almost faster than Rupert could shove them under his nose and imply that he was a fool for not taking the time to hear a quick translation. These implications were rather louder and more pointed than Rupert seemed to realize; only one of many evidences that wherever he and Heathcliff had been, they had celebrated in a manor quite unseemly for the members of a good Muslim wedding party.

Well that was just smashing! Wesley really couldn't care less about their recreation or their blathering or their bloody contracts. It was nothing but land and money. Hang it all! Who could think about money at a time like this? Nonetheless, he did think it rather unsporting of them to stay out getting pissed or stoned or whatever they were until his one measly drink had worn off and he was required to endure this burlesque of a wedding entirely sober.

Of course, he wasn't the only one in that position Wesley reminded himself. He looked over and caught Amal's eye with what he hoped was a look of sympathy or solidarity or something similarly positive and appropriate. She colored deeply but did not look away. She even tried, valiantly to smile. Wesley almost loved her just for that. If she had looked angrily at him in that moment, he might not have been able to go on.

As he listened to David droning on in Arabic just closely enough to know when to repeat _qabul_ “I accept”, three times; he kept eye contact with Amal, wishing he could have stood closer to her, close enough to hold her hand. To comfort and reassure her. True, they were in far closer quarters (men and women all gathered in one small room) that was traditional in a lot of Muslim cultures, especially the infamously conservative Wahhabi sects of Afganistan. But they were still positioned a good ten feet apart, with David, Heathcliff, Rupert, and Peter in between.

Amal radiated a sort of quietly nervous energy. Calm stoicism stretched tight over desperate hope and near panicked dread with a transparent gloss of cheerfulness hastily brushed on, fooling no one. When it came time for her to say her 'qabuls' her voice broke and quavered far more than could be explained by her uncertain grasp of Arabic, but she got through it without shedding tears or breaking eye contact with Wesley.

She was so sad and so brave. Wesley wanted to hold her in his arms and tell her everything would all be alright, that she was safe in his hands. And he'd get a chance to do that shortly, of course. The bigger problem was, when he told her she was safe, love, protected; he wanted that to be the truth.

~~~~~

From nowhere, from the dark, something divinely cool graced his forehead. But the rest of his body was still hot all over, sticking to what must have been sheets and one very sweaty pair of underpants. A cold compress against a fevered brow. That was the answer to the riddle. 'Clever' Doug thought dryly. 'Only took the great genius Dr. Wunderkind about five minutes to work that one out'. At this rate he'd be adding two plus two within the hour.

Doug tried to sit up, but small firm hands shoved him gently downwards. That undeniably female touch on his bare, burning shoulders sent an electric thrill down his spine and straight to his penis, which apparently didn't care that the rest of him felt like shit. Selfish prick.

“Whoa there, Doc,” Faith's voice was strangely gentle, only slightly mocking. For a moment Doug silently panicked, sure that he'd been caught in this seedy sin of pitiful, unactable lust. But no. She only meant that he shouldn't try to sit up. “You're weak.” Her words were almost a caress. She was worried for him. That didn't inspire a lot of confidence in a favorable prognosis.

“Am I still dying?” he asked, neither seeking nor avoiding emotional drama, just wanting to know.

“Not sure yet,” Faith answered. Her face was barely a silhouette, a moving shadow in the darkness; but there was a serious frown in her voice. “Here, drink this,” she added. Doug felt the cup of water she was tilting to his lips and sipped it gratefully. Her arm behind his back, holding him up was firm and businesslike, as no-nonsense as any nurse. Again, not a good sign.

Faith talked a little more. A lot for her really. Telling him important things, like the exact ways in which their new friends were somehow but not really connected to the High Royal Council of Lime Sucking Assholes, and how that was a good thing.

Doug tried to keep up with her, but he was so, so tired. At one point there may have been mention of Gods and Goddesses. Then again, that may have just been the fever talking. It was nothing he'd expect to hear from Faith. Then what? Something about ordering blood like pizza?

It was no use. If there was a tomorrow for him, he could figure it all out then. Either way, he didn't really have the energy to care. Doug slipped quietly back into the darkness.

~~~~~

“Doctor! Dr. Wilkinson!” Clair screamed frantically down the hallway. The kind of frantically that made Miriam come running without hesitation or annoyance, just concern. “Doctor, I don't even pretend to understand this, but this girl... her pregnancy isn't just progressing quickly, it's actually speeding up! And on top of that she's showing sings of early labor! She's having significant contractions about every half-hour now. And look, at her cervix! It's actually starting to dilate!”

And on top of all that, what didn't even have to be said at this point, was that, equally unfathomably, still, Willow Rosenberg slept. She wasn't in a coma or a vegetative state either. EEGs, CAT Scans, MRIs, the tell tale twitching beneath her eyelids; all said the same thing. This girl was far away in Dreamland, so far she couldn't seem to find her way back.

For all of those reasons, this time Miriam didn't even think of arguing or questioning Clair any further. She rushed into the room and began yet another quick exam of the girl before grabbing her ultrasound wand and doing another scan. What she saw was impossible. But frankly, that was consistent with every thing that they'd seen so far. At least if you thought in terms of consistent acceleration of the development of the Rosenberg fetus rather than consistent development as such.

Did that make any sense? No, but it was just how it was. Miriam was on longer worrying about why and how this could possibly have happened. You could drive yourself crazy in this town worrying about things like that. Her job now was to keep this girl and her baby alive. For that she had to deal with what was, not what should have been.

And that was that this fetus, which had measured only eighteen weeks at admission less than twenty-four hours ago was now measuring thirty weeks. If growth kept accelerating at the current rate and this girl didn't wake up in time to push, then in a couple of hours, they were going to have a life threatening crisis on their hands. Besides which, if it kept cannibalizing her tissues faster than they could pump her full of glucose and vitamins, she might starve to death in any case. She was dangerously low on both fat and muscle tissue as it was.

“Call downstairs and see if they have an OR available,” Dr. Wilkinson ordered. “If not, tell them to bump something that can wait. This can't. Meanwhile get her started on Tocolytics and increase her ACSs. And before I forget—” Miriam stopped short. Clair's eyes were wide as saucers. An orderly cursed in surprise.

Miriam turned in time to see her patient sit bolt upright in bed and begin shouting (raving really) at the top of her lungs. If the sounds pouring forth from her mouth like a mighty river were even words, Miriam was none the wiser. And yet, there was something strangely humbling in the atmosphere that seemed to form around the girl as she spoke. Her red hair flew around her pale, emaciated face as though she were some ancient mad woman; yet, she seemed not so much delusional or disoriented as fierce, almost commanding.

It was only when the orderly responded, in a soft voice, “ _Barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu, melekh ha'olam, bo're m'orei ha'esh,”_ That Dr. Wilkinson realized her patient wasn't just 'speaking in tongues' after all. She was speaking Hebrew. She still didn't know exactly what was being said, on either side. She wasn't exactly sure she wanted to know.

Willow rose to her feet on top of the hospital bed, both her hair and her gown flying about her now, stirred by a wind only she could feel. Her next sentence might or might not have been Hebrew. The only word Miriam recognized was 'Hecate'. She said the name almost as a term of address. A challenge?

The Orderly bobbed his head, something between a nod and a bow, and fled the room. There was really no other word for it. Clair looked a Miriam worriedly and mumbled something about getting a psych consult, her eyes begging for permission to leave, to get out of the now dreadfully tense atmosphere in that tiny room. Miriam nodded.

Now that there were only two of them in the room, Willow looked down into Miriam's face for a moment. Her expression was odd. Quizzical. Her hair and gown stopped blowing as, with a sheepish half smile, she went through awkward series of movements necessary to first sit and then lie back in bed.

“Okay,” Willow said finally, squirming in embarrassment. “That was a little strange, but, hey... all better now. All unstrange. So no need to, you know, call guys in white coats. I'm fine, you know, just getting over the shock of finding out, I'm, you know, so far along, but, hey, I've still got a few weeks to play with here, right? No Big.”

Dr. Wilkinson sighed. “I wish I could agree with you,” she said, sounding like she really, really meant it. “But I think we both know better than that; don't we?”

Willow recalled something Hecate had said just before she'd finally summoned the strength to get over herself and call for backup to back the Witch-Goddess down. . _..That wretched fetus has already grown to the point that it could be born right now and live to be a Supreme Court Justice._ The choice of imagery was deliberately mocking. Apparently, Hecate still kept up with politics.

Willow put her hands on her huge, impossibly swollen abdomen. “Oh my God!” she gasped in numb, utterly neutral amazement, “I'm going to be a mom?”

“Mozel Tov,” Miriam said, with just a bit of a wry smile, more relieved to have Willow out of her deathlike trance than anything.

 _Mozel Tov._ Most gentiles though it meant congratulations, and that was close enough for all practical purposes. But when it came right down to it, Mozel Tov didn't so much declare what was happening to be a good thing as express hope that it might be. It was more a statement of intention than fact, like 'good morning', or 'happy birthday'.

“Mozel Tov,” Willow repeated quietly. Her situation was not fair. She had been robbed of the choice she needed and deserved, both with regard to her late mother and her soon to be child. Hecate and her minions had forced Willow down a path that was not of her choosing. Yet and still, here on this path, she had a choice.

Suddenly, Willow realized there were tears rolling down her face. It was like a great ball of pain burst in her chest. Suddenly she was sobbing in Dr. Wilkinson's arms. With every sob, she choked out one word, “Mom.” It was a question and an answer, an accusation and a defense, a plea and a judgment.

At that moment Willow loved Sheila Rosenberg. She love the tiny child who had danced in the surf alongside her mother. She love the little eight-year-old girl who had watched her mother, grandmother, aunts and cousins burned to death at the hands of their 'Christian' neighbors. She loved the cautious, studious teen who had probably never meant to love another human being again. She loved the young woman who couldn't help but fall in love with Ira Rosenberg anyway, because who could?

She loved the young mother who just couldn't find it in her broken soul to love more than one person, even if that person was her own child, who didn't have the strength to form the very bond that had so crippled her a second time. And she loved the woman who got up every morning and made sure that her daughter had everything she needed and every reasonable thing she wanted, who never begrudged her her fathers love and attention and rarely spoke a harsh word to her in seventeen years; not because she loved her, but because it was the right thing to do.

Willow loved the mother who, though it would have been easy to do, though she had been helpless in her power; had never taken from Willow the one thing Sheila herself had been deprived of, the ability without reservation or limitation, to love. With that, the choice was made. Willow wasn't just going to be a mother; she was going to be a mom. And for that, finally, she loved her own mother, with all her heart.

Caressing her swollen belly, feeling the movement within, Willow felt so much joy that she couldn't even find it in her heart to wallow in guilt and regret that this epiphany had come too late to save her mother's life. All curses and spells were broken. Sheila and Ira were both at peace, hopefully somewhere together. In a few short weeks the child inside her would be ready to be born. And Xander would be by her side. It was time to love forward, not back. It was time to bring life into the world. What could be more beautiful, more worthy of congratulations, than that.

~~~~~

The human half growled half grunted low in the back of its throat, like the animal it was. Then it let out its breath in a slow, deep syncopated hiss before beginning the process all over again, teeth gnashing all the while.

This thing was a ridiculous spectacle, really. Grimacing and tensing, trying to change reality by not admitting to it. Shadnoir couldn't help but let out a deep belly laugh that shook him to the bottom of his deepest stomach. The angry shame that flared in it's eyes at that was even more amusing.

“What's the matter?” Shadnoir taunted playfully, as if he were not fully aware of the agony that must be caused by the rapidly growing creature writhing within the human's guts.

“I dislike what I fancy I feel!” it ground out between clinched teeth, each word dripping with venomous, contemptuous sarcasm. It actually wished to do Shadnoir serious harm. This thing; with it's brittle, bunted little claws and it's tiny, boxy little teeth! It was all just too cute for words.

“Just cut me already!” the thing spat. “It's bound to be big enough by now!”

“Oh?” Shadnoir feigned puzzlement ever so thinly. “I thought perhaps that would not be necessary. From the sound of your kitten-like mewling, I thought surely you had grown a vagina.”

~~~~~

Spike drummed his finger impatiently on his ornate mahogany desk. Spike was not impatient. He was nervous; both apprehensive and excited. He could not, in fact hold his hands still or keep his face entirely straight. But he could move his fingers in a rhythm that suggested bored, confident superiority while smiling only the thinnest and most cryptic of smiles.

This was it. He was on the verge. Make the right moves now and this City was his. Day and night. Sod London. Double Sod Sodding Sunnydale. Spike was about to be crowned the _Sun King_. Here in the very shadow of Versailles no less. It was just too perfect.

And that, of course, was what made him nervous. In both the positive and negative senses. Few Englishmen and fewer Americans these days knew the full meaning of the word 'jeopardy.' From the French, meaning that moment when the dice are in the air and it's anybody's game, the instant before fate shows the cards it's been holding all along, like the one about the bloody cat-in-a-box.

And now here it was; that moment.

“Okay, fine,” Spike exhaled with an exquisite semblance of exasperation. “I guess I can spare a minute or two. But make it snappy, yeah? The football'll be on here in just a bit.”

The Vampire he faced across that imposing desk remained calm. Not cocky about which way the dice would land. Just patient with fate. Spike had a strong impulse to kill him just for that, but he forbore. A cool head and a reserve of inner fortitude were after all, better qualities in an ally than in an enemy. But they were that much worse in an in-house rival. And uncommon in a minion, for all the obvious reasons.

Still, Spike heard his guest out. The alternative was almost too horrible to contemplate. He'd be damned to any heaven or hell in the Multiverse before he would scrape and bow before the likes of Warren Meres. Fortunately, Chris was not so bent on on being the Top Dog.

“So, let me get this strait,” Spike probed when Chris had more or less finished explaining what he and his squeeze brought to the table, “Your looking for what, equal partnership? Everything done by committee, that sort of thing?” He wasn't having to fake his annoyance quite so much at that.

“Yeah,” Chris said carefully. “That what I said. Why? What did you have in mind?”

“Well,” Spike's tone was oh so deliberately causal. “I was more thinking you'd work for me.”

“It would have to look that way in public,” Chris surprised him by half agreeing. “Image thing. That's fine. But behind closed doors, we'd have to agree on the important things."

It was then Queen Katrina piped up, “It would be a true partnership. In every aspect of life and business. Something like a marriage.”

Spike smiled slowly. “Well now, that is exactly what I'm looking for.” Marriage, another fine institution that feminists had only half succeeded in ruining. An excellent mechanism whereby a man could make someone his bitch for all eternity just by calling her his 'partner'. 


	13. Stuck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so about what I said in the last chapter summery... actually these circumstances are all pretty negative.

Mitzie lay in the darkness alone with the sick, uncertain feeling that filled her stomach and spread through her chest, like retroactive panic radiating out from the tangled ball of hope, dread, and conditional regret that had formed inside her. Hank was still there of course. In the bed beside her. Their bodies were touching. But his deep, even breathing spoke of untroubled sleep. In her turmoil, she was alone.

The clock by the bed flashed 1:00 pm, but she'd been watching it for hours. Long enough to know exactly how wrong it was without doing the math anymore. It was 2:00 in the morning, or close enough. The clock was either eleven hours fast or both an hour slow and entirely wrong, however you wanted to look at it. Either way, no new light had touched the windows yet. Dawn would be a long time coming if sleep didn't arrive first.

But Mitzie's mind, like her stomach, was too tied in knots for sleep. How exactly had this happened? she wondered. He'd kept saying it wasn't going to, and she'd accepted that, honestly feeling more relieved than not. And then he had made his oh so casual offer. To take her out without going out. To 'make an evening of it'. And they had.

There was wine of course. But not very much, and they'd both had some. It had made her feel happy and bold, but how much exactly that had contributed to this result, she didn't know. Had she truly overcome Hank's reservations or had he been playing for this outcome all along. Either way, how would he feel when he awoke and found her there? What would happen when they got home?

Would he decide she was a conniving slut who'd made him do something he regretted? A chump he'd cleverly succeeded in seducing? A stupid bimbo who'd been a sure thing all along? Or would he expect her to be in love with him, to plan her life around his from now on.

Mitzie knew that last one ought to sound like the best possible outcome. But when she thought about spending the rest of her life or even a hand full of years with this guy, a guy she suddenly realized she barely knew; all she could hear was the sound of a heavy metal door clanging shut.

~~~~~

Wesley had the feeling he ought to have carried Amal across the threshold. The inevitable end of their brief, tepid wedding celebration seem scandalously unceremonious. They just walked up the stairs while the mother of the bride rushed her remaining children off to bed and everyone else made a bee line for the front door. Like accomplices fleeing the scene of a crime.

But as best Wesley could remember on four or five long used up hours of jailhouse sleep, Muslims didn't carry their brides away. That was a Roman custom. The gesture of a people who had once prided themselves on their skill as ruthless marauders. The Islamic world had it's own little ceremonies for times like this speaking less of conquest than of consent. In form at least.

Still, Wesley struggled to recall precisely what those customs were. Sprinkling water around the room perhaps? They did love a good ritual cleansing, even more so than Christians or Jews, if that were possible. In fact, a wide, shallow bowl of water had been provided. So, yes, definitely sprinkling. And, of course, a prayer.

Amal stood awkwardly in the center of the room, smiling weakly and searching her husband's face for reassurance. Wesley turned and closed the door, both to shut out the household that was holding it's collective breath below them and to avoid her gaze for a moment so he could think. He rummaged around in the small Arabic section of his brain and found the right words, which he recited dutifully, touching his trembling hands to Amal's face at what he was pretty sure were the correct times.

The feeling of unceremoniousness, of anticlimax was entirely gone now. When his skin touched hers, alone in this small universe of a room, there was something electric in that contact. Whether the feeling was positive or negative was hard to say, but it was powerful. The air was heavy with significance, with intention. Wesley's chest was tight and his throat felt swollen.

Amal's eyes were soft and patient now, sad but calm. His heart nearly stopped when the traditional blessing he was reciting touched upon the subject of children she would bare to him. Amal didn't react at all to those terrifying word. Wesley wondered for the first time whether she even spoke Arabic. Probably not. Certainly not much.

Regardless, he had said every appropriate prayer and blessing of which he could think. The time for words was passed. Eventually, he was going to have to do what he came here it do. And he was running out of eventually. As much as he wanted to tell his young bride that there was absolutely no rush, that they had all night and longer if she needed it; given his state of near exhaustion and his early morning flight, that wasn't the truth.

Suddenly, they were back to the familiar awkward standing about. Which reminded Wesley of every remotely similar situation he'd even been in. Not that any of them were really even remotely similar. It wasn't as though they'd just gone to dinner and a show and come back to her flat for a night cap. It wasn't as though they'd spent three months passing longing looks across a classroom or a cafe either.

He couldn't quite summon up the audacity to suggest to Amal that they should move to the bed now. And thinking of that, it was hard to imagine even kissing her. Not that she didn't look... kissable. Well to some extent. If it wasn't for those baby seal eye. Her eyes were beautiful actually, attractive even. But the way she looked at him... Serious. Hopeful. Uncertain. It was not the look of a lover.

Wesley went and sat down on the bed himself without a word. He supposed without really thinking about it that Amal would take the hint. When he looked back at her, she was still standing in the same spot. He must have looked at her expectantly, in her view, perhaps even impatiently, because her self-consciously casual posture suddenly straightening in surprise and her eyes widening still further.

Wesley was sure then that he had made a mistake. Somehow, already, he'd frightened her. He was never going to manage to get through this without scarring her for life, whatever Rupert and his kind thought. But then again, she didn't look frightened exactly. Her expression moved from surprised through quizzical to embarrassed-to-cause-embarrassment as she asked, “Aren't you going to wash my feet?”

~~~~~

“Holy Christ!” Xander shouted, as he struggled to keep the Lexis on the road. He'd been punching it to try to get back from Fondren before curfew, when he'd been blindsidedby his own past. Memories spewed, and bubbled and exploded up from the dark, hidden depths of this brain like tons of ash and molten rock escaping a volcano. The rock-hard blocks and stopages that had been put into place to hold them down crumbled to dust as suddenly and completely as any vampire.

He had he killed Angle. Not in a dream, in real life. And speaking of life, the one he had taking from Angel had seemed awfully human, beating heart and all. Then, for no good reason he could think of, Angel had turned into some kind of vampire/zombie thing. Zompire? Whatever.

That was when Willow's sneaky witch friend had caught him trying to move the suddenly uncooperative body. She had dusted what was left of Angel and tried to cover the whole Vampire thing up. To make Xander fear that there was still a body to be found. To get him to leave town. And then he had caught her at _that_ and just... forgotten and gone home convinced that Willow didn't need him anyone or really even want him around.

Which wasn't true! That was the best news in the world. One ray of light in the darkness of everything he was remembering. Until he realized everything it meant. The problems it unsolved. The whole impossible mess of being exclusively committed to two girls who thought he was their boyfriend. One who was pregnant and one who was Willow.

But what the hell had happened? Ms. Waddle must have put the whammy on him. That much was obvious. You didn't just forget stuff like fighting the dead body of your own murder victim or the fact that your girlfriend needed you to look after her furry little offspring and their rat of a mother.

But why was the spell suddenly broken now? Not nearly enough time had passed for Waddle to think she'd gotten what she wanted as far as keeping him from Willow. Hell, she was still in jail and he'd only missed a couple of days checking on the house, hadn't he? That part, the time he'd been under the spell was till just a bit fuzzy.

Either way, their was no reason for the older witch to have broken her own spell or let it expire or whatever. Which meant that she had been opposed and defeated. Either someone had gotten a hold of Waddle's books and made with the hocus pocus or.... She was dead.

“Damn,” Xander cursed aloud again. He just hoped she hadn't died at Willow's house. Because he'd just realized he was on his way over there right now to check on Sheila and the rats, curfew be damned. And if there was one thing he definitely didn't need to find there, one thing he could frankly go his whole life without having to deal with ever again, it was another dead body.

~~~~~

“I'll be back,” Wallace announced curtly, poking his head into the room. “Got to drop Cordelia back at her car.” The golden, comparatively bright light of the hallway made his silver hair shine like a halo. That made Faith's shields want to go up big-time. It made her want to snap at him that she didn't need the play by play on his whole miserable existence. Instead, she just nodded and went right on changing Doug's bandages.

She knew he wasn't doing it on purpose, not trying to sell himself as a hero. It was just a bad reminder of what kinds of people really existed and what didn't. It wasn't like he was being overly sweet or anything creepy like that either. But she was always on edge around people she hadn't known long enough to figure out what their bad qualities were. Whatever people like to tell themselves when they were screwing each other over, it was the things you didn't know that could hurt you the most.

Truthfully, if it hadn't been for Doug, Faith doubted she would have been there when the old man got back. Sure he had saved her life. But how he'd known when and where to save it and what he was saving it for; these questions were still unanswered.

He wasn't exactly part of the Council, or so he said; but he knew them and worked with them, especially the one who lived here. The one who had married his Slayer, the old guy's great-granddaughter who was only about a year older than Faith. The one who was apparently recruiting and training high school cheerleaders to pitch in and help battle the forces of darkness. All of which sounded pretty hinky as far as Faith was concerned.

On the other hand, well... there was Doug. If he hadn't been a fugitive, he'd be in a hospital right now. And young and strong though he might be, he didn't have a Slayer's healing powers. His wounds would have to mend the long, slow way. Which meant they were stuck here in Helltown whether they liked it or not. So, considering that everyone from the vampires to the cops wanted them dead, giving up a decent hiding place and two probable allies who could handle themselves in a fight wouldn't have been the smart move.

Besides, for all Faith knew, Doug might still have internal bleeding. He might need yet another transfusion. And somehow she didn't think Blowtorch Barbie was going to divulge the secrets of who she had called to get that little cooler full of Red Cross blood bags delivered right to their front door or what her end of that bargain was exactly.

Faith knew all that, had weighed it all, considered it. And she'd come to the same conclusion that had lead her to push Doug in the direction of this bleak little flyspeck of a town in the first place. She couldn't afford to just take off and run this time. She couldn't run far enough or fast enough. She was committed, aka trapped. This was the only place that she could make her stand against that blonde thing that even a vampire would have been scared to face alone. The only place where she might find anyone useful to stand with her.

There was on hope in running. Running was not an option. Which made Faith's feet itch to run.

~~~~~

“Be careful,” Wallace said as Cordelia hopped out of the van in the school parking lot. Not in that just-being-polite way most people do. It was gruff and remindery, like 'don't for get the lock up when you leave' or 'don't leave the cap off the toothpaste.' In other words, he meant it.

“You too,” she said seriously. “Get back inside before that sunset finishes setting and stay there, alright?”

“Thanks,” Wallace said with a small smile and an even smaller nod. Cordelia noticed how much of an answer that wasn't, but Wallace was about a million years old, so she guessed he could do what he wanted. It wasn't like he was some frail old thing that couldn't look out for himself either. He'd proven that today well enough.

“Kay,” Cordelia said with a little wave out the open window as she got back into her own car and slammed the door. “Ciao.”

That got a slightly bigger smile, verging on a laugh. “Just don't get yourself killed,” the old man warned, warmly and seriously at the same time, the way a real grandfather probably would. One who didn't spend all his time drinking at the country club while his wife pretended to believe he was playing golf. Still, on general principals, Cordelia made a show of rolling her eyes as she pulled away, leaving the old guy grinning and shaking his head as he climbed back into the van.

After he had turned away, Cordelia smiled too. B.F. Wallace was without a doubt the coolest person over seventy that she had ever met. Which might not be saying much, she guessed. But she could definitely see the Buffylike toughness, resourcefulness, and general good-guyishness shining through the old-geezeriness. You couldn't help but like him, the way he managed not to be bitter and useless despite clearly living close enough to death come over and borrow a cup of sugar.

In fact, even as creaky and slow-moving as he was, Wallace complained a lot less about the work that went into both the figuring things out and the actual fighting part than Buffy did. Maybe the whiny genes came from her father's side of the family, along with that thing on her face and all that untreated combination skin, and the lack of will to treat it. Not that you needed perfect skin to catch a tweedy old librarian, she guessed. Not even one who was relatively easy on the eyes if not the ears and clearly loaded.

Whatever. Regardless, running into Wallace, today of all days, had been beyond lucky. That and the fact that the vision thing had actually happened at in a way that (in addition to being head-splitting) was actually clear and useful for once. And really, that was sort of down to Wallace too. He was the one who'd recognized Faith just from Cordelia's description of her vision, though she had been the one to recognize Willies and to figure out that the dark she had seen there was not the actual dark of night.

Which was actually just barely starting threaten to close in right now, speaking of. Still, it was only a little after six. Technically, Cordelia was not 'late' getting home until sevenish... as long as her father didn't know that school had been closed half the day. And if he did, she was already massively late anyway.

Anyway, none of that mattered. She couldn't resist. Cordelia drove by Xander's house just to see the Rosenbergs' car parked out front and be reassured that he was home and safe. Except, it wasn't there. Cordelia's chest tightened for a moment but before she even had time to imagine the specifics of every conceivable kind of trouble that could mean; the much more breathe-through-able truth dawned on her. Xander wasn't late until seven either. He'd probably stopped by Sheila's to finally send her an email.

And sure enough, there it was. Parked on the curb in front of Sheila's house. Willow's house. The front of which looked normal as ever not counting a few tree limbs on the lawn and one shattered window, which was about par for the block. But in spite of that, something felt the exact opposite of right about the place.

Maybe it was an after effect of all of this vision stuff, or maybe there was something a little off about the shape of the roof line. Cordelia couldn't say for sure. But by the time she had circled the block twice, she knew that she was going to stop and go inside. And she was pretty sure that her desperate desire to see Xander again was only part of the reason.

~~~~~

Amal sat on the cushioned half-hexagon that filled the recess of the deep bay window from floor to windowsill. Wesley knelt at he feet with the tiny basin and a soft washcloth he had found in the bathroom. Not that her feet weren't perfectly clean. He probably could have fulfilled his ritual obligation simply getting her feet wet and massaging them a little with his fingers.

But his hands were shaking enough even with the washcloth as a barrier. He'd never in his entire life touched a woman's naked feet with his bare hands, wet or dry. It was ridiculously personal. Intimate. And yet, almost anti-sexual. Like something a mother with do for a child.

It was a stark, unsettling contrast the involuntary shutter of anticipation that had passed through him when she'd lifted the hem of her long, dark, funereal dress away from that tiny bit of water. All that had been revealed was lower curve of her calves. She had not bared her knees to him, let alone her thighs. But it was enough to remind him that they were there. Which only made him feel like an absolute pervert.

Amal laughed nervously. “I think that's enough,” she said. “You can leave the skin on.” Wesley dropped the rag in the water and she nudged the bowl aside with her foot. She stood, pulling him, unresisting onto his own feet.

Her wet toes made little damp spots on the carpet, making Wesley wonder if he'd committed some terrible breach of etiquette by not having a towel there to dry them. The fact that he was still wearing his own shoes seemed suddenly unacceptable, as if _that_ were the source of the imbalance of power and vulnerability between them. It wasn't, but he kicked them off anyway and, strangely felt a little better.

And now here they were again. Standing about. Amal looked at Wesley expectantly, her lower lip caught be tween her teeth. “Well...” he said at last. The poor girl practically snapped to attention, ready to hang on his every word. The only trouble was, he couldn't seem to find another one. Dear God, he was supposed to be the one that knew what to do.

~~~~~

There it was. The body. The moment he walked into what was left of Willow's house, Xander had known that he was going to find a body. Maybe more than one. The roof was torn open, letting in the sky through an opening that could be seen even from the ground floor if you looked directly up the staircase in the living room. The jagged sections of roof that hung through the gaping hole looked singed, the carpeted stairs below, soaked.

Xander had taken the steps two at a time, not stopping to wonder if they were safe to climb. There was more charring and far less ceiling up here. All of the carpets were sodden. The interior doors had been blown open, breaking their latches and in some cases the hinges too.

Ms. Waddle's corpse was not here. But Sheila Rosenberg's was. She was lying on the bed in what used to be the guest room, the room she had been locked away in like a sleeping princess for weeks. There was a huge hole burned through her chest. Yet the bedclothes had barely been ignited before being doused with enough rain to knock the world back to two of every animal.

It looked like she'd been struck through the heart with a bolt of lightning.

Xander decided not to think too much about that. There were lots of powerful people and things in Sunnydale. Some of them were bound to have had better motives and opportunities to have done this than... Well, there was Ms. Waddle for one. Maybe Willow had been getting close to working through her issues, waking her mom up, and spoiling the witches plans. Maybe this murder was the cause of whatever form of smackdown had lead to Waddle's spells being broken.

Regardless, there was nothing he could do for Sheila now, and if he stayed here in this tiny room with her for one more second, he felt like he would completely loose his mind. He whirled on his heals and bolted from the room, slamming the door behind him, ignoring the fact that it didn't stay shut.

The rats. He had to check on the rats. He thanked God as he got close enough to Sheila and Ira's old bedroom to hear the squeaking. If they'd all been drowned in their cages, he wasn't sure Willow would have ever forgiven him.

The door sagged open at a lopsided angle, but at least this room still had a roof over it. The carpet was wet, but not soaked like it was in the room where he'd found Sheila's body. There were no squelching sounds, no feeling of walking through a bog that was trying to pull him down by his shoes. All of which seemed like hopeful signs to Xander.

And sure enough, there they all were. Fourteen little pink noses and (presumably) two-hundred and eighty little pick toes, all safe and sound in their cage on the dresser. The cage litter needed replacing and they could probably use more food and water, but for now at least, they seemed alright.

Xander was glad somebody was at least. He sat down on the reasonably dry bed and went back to thinking about other problems. Like whether it made sense to call the authorities or just get the hell out of here and let them find Sheila when they found her. He'd have felt a lot better doing either if he could have talked to Willow about it first.

If he could have gotten some reassurance that she had nothing to do with this and some clue about who did, then he might know what to do. Or he still might not. It seemed like any way you sliced it he was probably going to end up facing some tough questions about finding this and/or not sticking around afterward. Either way, he might be screwing things up for Willow. And knowing that, he decided to go with the only thing that for sure seemed right, which was that Sheila needed to be buried promptly and with respect, not left here to rot until someone showed up to check out the smell.

He reached for the phone on the nightstand, but the line was dead. Of course it is you idiot, he berated himself silently. Every wire in the house must be fried. It probably wasn't even safe to be up here.

He needed to get the rats out of here and then get to a phone. But this wasn't exactly the kind of neighborhood were it was easy to find a payphone. There was some kind of zoning rule that said all these doctors, lawyers, and professors were too good for that. Was this a run-next-door kind of emergency? After all, there had sort of been a fire. And maybe he wouldn't seem too axmurdery if he knocked politely and tried to sound calm.

Yeah. That would be okay. People would understand, would help. Probably even the people in this neighborhood. He could just put the rats in the car and then go next door and—“Aaaaaahh!” A high wordless scream of terror, so high it could have _been_ from a giant rat, rang out below, echoing up the stairs.

The scream snapped Xander to his feet and set his heart racing, but the voice that followed almost drove him to his knees, almost stopped his heart right there. “Xander!” Cordelia shouted, sounding more scared than he had ever heard her, more scared than he had ever thought she could be, “Get out! The house is falling down!”

That was all the prompting Xander needed. He hadn't noticed a single sign of the house falling, other than the fact that most of the roof already had. But what did he know about houses? It didn't matter. When Cordelia sounded that serious, she was that serious. Which meant you had better listen. At least he knew that.

Xander grabbed the cage full of rats and made his way down the stairs as fast as he could with it, which was not really all that fast. The cage wasn't really that heavy, but is was pretty cumbersome, especially with fourteen agitated rats running around inside.

When he got to the foot of the stairs, there she stood, glaring at him impatiently. “Ish,” she said wrinkling up her nose. “Why do you have a huge ball of rats in a cage?” But when he opened his mouth she said, “No. Stop. I don't want to know until we get outside.”

Cordelia spoke in the same casually dramatic voice Xander was used to hearing when she held forth on everything from what an annoying waste of time traffic law were to the global economic importance of lip gloss. But at the same time, she cast a wary eye up the stairs at the gaping hole full of sky and held her hands tightly together in front of her, neither griping her hips nor gesturing for dramatic effect. In other words, she was still really worried for their safety.

Xander nodded and they both made for the already open front door. “Call 911,” he told her as they went, remembering why people who lived in these types of neighborhoods didn't need pay phones. “Sheila's dead upstairs.”

“Oh God!” Cordelia half-whined/half-empathized, throwing her arms around Xander the second he set the rats down on the curb next to the Lexis. He hugged her back automatically until it became more than automatic. Everything was terrible and confusing. It felt good to have her in his arms. It felt safe and sanity-making.

Cordelia held on just as tight, breathing in the strong, male washed-but-still-sweaty scent of her precious, irreplaceable mate. Her head was still reeling with the horrifying vision of the whole house toppling down which she was only now finally realizing might not be destined to happen in the next hour or even the next day.

And just because she was glad he was alive and that she was alive to be with him, she grabbed Xander's face in both hands, pulled his mouth to hers and kissed him as deeply and as passionately as any Soap-opera diva ever to grace the sordid screen. She kissed him with everything she had and he kissed back with his whole being, like pouring the essential truth of his soul and of his whole past present and future down her throat. Until she choked on it.

Xander was so lost in the kiss that he didn't seem to notice when Cordelia moved from tenderly embracing him to clutching at his shoulders just to stay on her feet in the grip of her head-splitting vision. Images forced their way explosively into her mind.

_Xander and Cordelia screaming at one another in a squalled little apartment. A filthy dish shattering against the grimy wallpaper, while in another room a wailing infant goes unanswered._

_Xander gripping Willow's cold dead hand. Her hair is entirely white while he seems much less old. Real tears. Not a friend's tears. A lover's._

_Willow and Xander making love. It this house. The one her actual eyes would see if she opened them. Sex but not just sex. Definitely love. There is not a goddamned thing wrong with the roof and not a sign that it has been repaired._

_Willow and Cordelia, in that creepy mansion on Crawford Street. Somehow, this is also Willow's house. It still looks as creepy as ever but they don't feel that way. They love each other, are almost in love, sort of. There are babies, one for each and all for Xander. And to their amusement and delight, the house is crawling with hundreds of rats. From the inside of the vision all of this somehow feels mostly right, but from the outside it feels all wrong._

_Disgusted, hurt, angry, confused, Cordelia pulls herself from Xanders arms. She surprises him with a hard right hook that bloodies his nose. They both stagger backward but don't quite fall. “Hey,” he shouts, “what was that for!?!” Cordelia can't answer, she turns and runs. She has to make it back to her car before he sees that she is crying._

_~~~~~_

Still as a statue beneath his oppressive weight, not struggling anymore, not even breathing, she is as ridged as any corpse. She shows as little reaction to his repetitive, penetrating thrusts as if her body were truly an empty, inanimate vessel. There is little pain in it for her, but no pleasure. This is the way he likes it, and gods and demons is it boring!

Katrina waits impatiently for Warren's orgasm, glad, at least that this is the last time she will have to endure his attentions. At last, with a groan of satisfaction, his arrhythmic pricking ceases and for an instant his body goes as ridged as hers. His inert, useless seaman spurts and dribbles from him against her cervix, the portal to her equally useless womb.

She feels a strange, muted sort of pity for the girl it had belonged to, the girl Warren had killed before she'd even had a chance to decide if she had any use for that part of her self in the first place. How strange it still feels to be dead and yet live to witness it!

But this is a problem Warren no longer has. Because in that moment, he is distracted, as distracted as any man (or beast) can be. This is Katrina's part in the plan, and now Chris performs his just as well. He rises swiftly from his chair beside the bed and lets the camera he hasn't even bothered to turn on fall to the floor as he pulls the stake from his sleeve and plunges it into Warren's back, straight through to the heart.

~~~~~

It was the most amazing kiss in the history of kisses. Perfect. Passionate. The pure and simple essence of true love. It was enough to make Xander dare to hope that he could tell Cordelia the truth after all, and that the truth would be that they belong together, even if that meant his friendship with Willow would take years to mend.

That was, until she surprised him with a hard right hook that bloodied his nose causing him to stagger backward and nearly off his feet. “Hey,” he shouted, “what was that for!?!” Cordelia didn't answer. She was already running for her car. He had to lengthen his stride to catch up with her, barely managing to throw himself in front of her driver-side door before she could escape.

“Hey, come on,” he begged, “what's the matter? Talk to me.”

“What's the matter!?!” Cordelia demanded, “What's the matter? Gee, I don't know, maybe the fact that you're fucking Willow Rosenberg?”

Xander was a lot more shocked than he probably had a right to be. He had no idea how Cordelia knew what she knew, but she was smarter than him (like most people) so that happened a lot. “Yeah but see, that's all over now,” he stammered. She was too sure for him to dare deny it. “It was just—you weren't talking to me—and—and I'm sorry.”

“Well you should be!” Cordelia shot back. She elbowed past him and tried to get her door open, but he grabbed her around the middle and pulled her back from the car. She bruised his shins with kick and dug her nails into his arms, but he didn't let go. He just kept shouting at _her_ for hurting _him_ and begging her to listen to his excuses.

She must have had both feet off the ground kicking him when the cop car pulled up along side them and stopped with a single whoop of it's siren; because when Xander let go of her she tumbled to the pavement.

Thank God it was a woman cop. Somehow, that made it easier to explain that she had just been defending herself, and pretty successfully; to lodge her complaint and demand that Xander be arrested without having to feel humiliated and rescued.

Inside a minute, Officer Ankara had him cuffed and shoved into the back of her car. “Now,” she said, turning to Cordelia, “why don't you tell me exactly what happened.” Cordelia hesitated, not sure what not to say first. The visions, the body, the hitting him first all seemed like good places not to start. “No, wait,” the officer amended. “I bet I can guess. You tried to dump this total loser for—I'm just gonna go out on a limb her—being a lying cheating puss-pocket; and he tried to hold you here against your will to listen to his excuses. Am I warm?”

“Like toast,” Cordelia agreed curtly. She didn't feel guilty either. Something had snapped. The love he'd taken from her was gone, but at least it didn't belong to him anymore.

“Men!” the officer sighed commiserably, “Don't you just wish we could given them what they really deserve, instead of a few hours in jail until some other man lets them go for a few dollars and a promise to be good?”

Cordelia shrugged. “If you wanted to give him a few taps with your nightstick, I wouldn't object. I saw him resisting, I wear.” She said it like a joke. And it was. Sort of. Anyway, Ankara laughed. It wasn't really a mean laugh though. It was... supportive. It gave Cordelia the courage to say out loud what she was thinking.

“You know what I wish, what I really wish? I wish, like for just a few days—like maybe a thousand—he could be the one suck with my life, he could be the one pregnant and alone and cheated on and left with nothing but trouble and I could have all of his so called problems!”

And suddenly, Officer Ankara's laughter stared to sound mean after all. Her face blurred and cracked. Cordelia didn't know at first if what she was seeing was here-and-now-real, or part of a vision. By the time she heard the throaty, demonic voice croak out, 'wish granted', it was coming from far away, on the other side of thick glass.

Nothing she had witnessed or experienced in all her sixteen years growing up in Sunnydale, not even being half eaten by a vampire or menaced by a werewolf had filled Cordelia with the kind of Twilight Zone horror that gripped her as she looked out the back glass of the police cruiser and watched Officer Ankara still deep in conversation with Cordelia Chase.

 


	14. Whatever Gets You Through the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Wesley and Amal's wedding night and they will do, say, or believe whatever they have to to get through it. You have been Warned. Also, watch out for Giles, he's acting a little strange.

“Well, uhm, Yes, well, I uhm... so what do you... that is to say... erm... would you like, to... to...oh, bloo—blessed...” Trying to speak was almost as excruciating as the silence that fell between them when he stopped trying. Wesley's desperate eyes cast about the room as if for inspiration.

When he didn't look not at his wife, the knowledge that (as he had noted earlier) she did in fact have legs and thighs under that dress and everything that went with them only made him more nervous. Personal, legal, and ethical considerations aside, this was as close as he had been to having sex in quite some time. It was as close as he had ever been to having sex with someone who wasn't likely to disappear, if not by morning, then certainly by the end of the semester.

It wasn't meant to be this way. He should be calmingly confident and reassuringly in control. He was twenty-six, nearly twice Amal's age. He'd spent most of the last decade at university in one capacity or another. One's university days were traditionally assumed to be replete with opportunities to gain sexual experience.

And it wasn't as though he hadn't had _any_ experience with women. But the times it had gone past a little mutual fondling he could still count on one hand, and he'd never gotten the impression that any of his partners had found the endeavor to be a raging success from their point of view. Although in at least one case and probably more the complaint had been more about his 'emotional availability' than his actual performance.

Women weren't interested in a man who kept his thoughts to himself and studiously avoided unfairly giving the false impression that he expected his post-university life to include them. So mostly, he had found it easier just to concentrate on his studies. He'd found that it was extremely difficult to contract a social obligation if he never spoke to anyone about anything beyond his various studies, and so he hadn't. Which had been working alright in a dreary sort of way, until now.

At last, Wesley's eye lighted on an old turntable set on a small table near a shelf of old vinyl records. “Dance!” he said quite as suddenly as a Pentecostal speaking in tongues. Amal blinked at him in surprise. “Would you like to dance with me?” he clarified, indicating the musical equipment with a wave of his hand.

“Oh! Yes,” Amal breathed out sounding very relieved and slightly excited. And then, embarrassedly, she added, by way of explanation. “I'm just—nobody ever asked me to dance before.”

Wesley laughed in relief and stifled the small voice in his mind that said he shouldn't feel relieved at all because all they were doing was stalling. “Well, then,” he offered bowing in a way that he hoped she would take as gallant rather than mocking. “Pick out any record you like, and that will make it our song. Maybe we can even take it with us.”

“Yeah,” Amal mumbled, breaking eye contact, visibly deflating.

“Oh, my word,” Wesley worried allowed, venturing to move much closer to her but resisting the impulse to lift her chin in his hand. “Was it—I didn't mean to say anything upsetting.”

“Oh, it's not that,” Amal assured him looking up with tears in her eyes. “It's just... You do know music is illegal where we're going?”

Now it was Wesley's turn to blink in surprise. “What, surely not _all_ music?” Amal nodded, her big, sad, serious eyes never leaving his. Such a thing seemed imposable, and yet he had no cause to doubt her. What on earth had he let the Council get him into, he wondered yet again, newly terrified. It was almost as if he were being banished to another dimension, it was so alien there.

“But we can dance now,” Amal reminded him, struggling to be cheerful and reassuring. Suddenly, on impulse, he pulled her into a hug. They clung to one another fiercely, as if anchoring each other against gale-force winds that threatened to sweep the away. Amal sobbed against Wesley's shirt front while he stroked her hair, blinking back more than a tear or two himself.

Finally, Amal composed herself. “You pick the music,” she said. “Something romantic. I wouldn't know where to start.” It didn't take Wesley long to spot it. It's gentle rhythm was easy to dance to. It would require her to learn nothing more than to sway in time as he held her in his arms. And thematically, it couldn't have been more right.

Certain in his choice, Wesley stopped to make himself a little more comfortable, a little more approachable before setting the record spinning. He took off his jacket and tie and kicked out of his socks. His barefoot bride smiled at him encouragingly, and walked into his arms as soon as he had dropped the needle into the grove.

It wasn't the oldest version of the song, and arguably not even the most romantic; neither the most wistful nor the most passionate, but it was slow and rich and smooth and simple, steering clear of science and politics and anything else that could anchor it to a particular time or place.

♫ _You must remember this ♪_  
_♫ A kiss is still a kiss ♪_  
_♫ A sigh is just a sigh ♪_

Sinatra's gentle voice caressed them with Humpfeld's humble arguments in favor of surrendering to moments of honest passion despite all possible external circumstances.

  
_♫ The fundamental things apply ♪_  
_♫ As time goes by ♪_

And with a shudder of release, Wesley let go of something he had been holding on to ever since this whole mad scheme had been revealed to him. He stopped struggling, with his conscience, with his fate, with all of it. He let the question of whether the girl in his arms ought to be his lover fall to the floor unanswered. He held her close and breathed her in, matching the swaying of her body with his own and accepted the simple fact that she was.

~~~~~

“It's this house,” Heathcliff muttered by way of explanation, long after Rupert had stopped expecting an answer to his question. Which had only been why they should have to go out into the chilly night air to smoke their cigars. “The things that happened here when we were children. You may not have any memories of it, but I have too many. I'll always feel like a child in this house. And not a happy child either.”

'We'. Heathcliff could have meant himself and his brother, but he clearly didn't. Giles took another puff and considered how to respond. He'd agreed to stay for a smoke for only two reasons. First because Heathcliff had seemed so alarmed when everyone else begged off en mass, and second because he thought he might work the conversation around to getting something a little stronger. But reminiscences about the distant past, about living here with his mother; that was more than he'd expected. Maybe more than he was prepared to deal with right now.

But there was one thing he couldn't help asking. “What was she like?” he asked abruptly.

Heathcliff shrugged. “I was a child,” he said. “Five years old for fuck's sake. She was a girl. Very pretty. Mostly kind. And very deeply sad. When she first moved in I liked her a lot. She was the only quasi-adult I knew that wasn't too 'dignified' to get down on the floor and play with me.

“I worried about her though, because she was always crying and saying she wanted to go home. She missed her parents. I heard her yelling at Father once, begging to go home just for a visit. She said they probably thought she was dead.”

Rupert stared at Heathcliff. It was hard to process what he was hearing. Or maybe he just didn't want too. If he felt disconnected from the narrative, as though he were hearing about just any young girl who had been spirited away by strangers and kept from her family, maybe that was for the best. He could feel himself getting angry on her behalf as it was, but he knew (for this at least) any anger he felt towards Heathcliff would be entirely misdirected.

“Needless to say,” Heathcliff went on, “I found the whole thing very upsetting. Mother told me to ignore her, that she was just spoiled. That stuck in my head because it was so clearly wrong. I was young, but I wasn't blind. I could tell she was really suffering. I don't think I ever really trusted my parents after that. Not until I was an adult anyway.

“It's strange to remember all this now, after all the years I spent hating her guts, and then not being able to bear the thought of her at all,” Heathcliff concluded darkly.

For a moment, Rupert was confused, and prepared to be very angry indeed. “But why would you—” he started, then banged up against the obvious answer and sighed deeply. “That was around the time your parents separated, I suppose.”

“You moved in,” Heathcliff confirmed, “and six months later we moved out. Naturally I assumed the two events were connected. For that matter, there were times Mother came fairly close to saying as much. At any rate, I hardly saw my father afterward. I guess I've spent most of my life hating you for that. Ridiculous as it seams now.”

“I don't suppose logic really enters into it,” Giles offered graciously. Not that he really felt all that gracious, just tired. Emotionally drained. The last thing he needed was to get into a pointless argument with Heathcliff over who had gotten the worst of the never ending disaster that was childhood in a Watching Family. After all, he was only here to keep the poor SOB company, to give him something to do other than listening to Julian's son deflowering his pubescent daughter.

“I feel entirely too sober,” Rupert murmured.

“Too bad I haven't got anything here,” Heathcliff commiserated.

“Like hell you haven't” Rupert scoffed.

“Well, no alcohol,” Heathcliff conceded, “not that you need any more of that with those pills your taking, I guess. I've got some hash if you want.”

Rupert's expression hardened. It was late. He was in pain. He was tired. And they were already much too far beyond the current moral boundaries of Western Civilization to start being delicate now. “You know what I want,” he said. “This hip hurts like hell and the only thing for it is to walk on it and hope it get's stronger, which only makes it hurt worse in the meantime. I don't need any more of that glorified Tylenol they gave me at the hospital or one lousy bowl of hashish either. I want heroin.”

~~~~~

The song was romantic, but too short. The guy on that old record of Grandfather's kept singing, moving on to other songs. Some nearly as romantic as the first, but most not so much.

Wesley had been moving his hands around in a weird sort of massaging way on her lower and lower back but never quite her bottom. Now he stopped and just held them pressed flat against her back. She guessed that had been her cue to respond and she'd blown it. Now, what?

If he didn't make some more definite kind of a move soon, they were going to run out of music and everything was going to get super awkward again. Which meant, Amal realized, her heart thumping like crazy, that if _he_ didn't she was going to have to. Her father had been extremely clear about what he expected of her. She was not to let Wesley leave this room until they had had sex. No rainchecks, no delays, and no excuses.

Kiss him, she thought. Duh. That was the most natural, most obvious, most unmisreadable way to declare her readiness to get on with it already. But he was so ridiculously tall that she didn't think she could kiss him without asking him to bend down first. In which case she guessed she just about might as well say, 'Hey, Mister, why don't you screw me already and get it over with?' This might not be TrueLove™ but surely it could be a little more romantic than that.

Instead, she kind of snuggled up closer to him and laid her head against his chest. She'd seen women do that in movies. It usually meant they were in love. Wesley's heart was beating even harder than hers. Amal guessed that was a good sign. At least it meant he was excited. After all, he was a tall, dark, and hansom man who'd been trained to fight monsters, so it didn't exactly seem likely that his heart was racing for the same reason hers was. He didn't have any reason to be scared. Certainly not of a little girl, who didn't have fangs or anything.

He was probably just being careful not to rush her, Amal decided. He needed a clearer sign that she was ready. So this was it. No more playing around. She closed her eyes, wrapped her arms even more tightly around him, and said his name, “Wesley,” as lovingly as she could. As she said it, she tried to imagine that it was a magic word. In fairy tales, names were always magic. If she said it just right, if that made him want to kiss her, and if he did kiss her, just right; maybe they would fall in love.

Wesley stopped and took half a step back, tilting his head and looking at her. He looked... sort of confused, but something else, something that was really heard to read. And then he smiled and moved in towards her again, bending way down, his head still tilted at an angle that told her which way to tilt hers.

She stood on her tiptoes for that first kiss, but the foot of difference in their heights still left him bending down at an awkward angle. Still, their lips met. Physically, this was less interesting than Amal had imagined. But the fact that it was happening, to her, was amazing and exciting. Somehow, it made her less scared.

Kissing, unlike sex, was something she'd actually spent some time imagining. Something she felt pretty ready for. Maybe if she just focused on the kissing, it would lead more or less naturally to everything else and she would find that there was nothing to be scared of after all.

But the angle thing just wasn't working for Wesley. He was having to sort of half lift Amal off the floor, and he seemed to be getting just a little bit frustrated. “We should sit,” she whispered, then silently panicked when his happily startled look made her realize that she just invited him to join her on the bed.

For a second Amal felt like she couldn't move, like she couldn't even breathe. But she didn't have to move. Wesley swept her up in his arms and carried her across the room, laying her down on the gold embroidered bedspread and lying down next to her, all in one smooth, uninterrupted flow of motion that ended with him leaning down over her, propped on his left side with his right hand resting on her back, not exactly pulling her to him, but encouraging her into a position that was not pulling away.

Amal took a deep, steadying breath as Wesley leaned in to kiss her again. She was the one who had deliberately moved to pick up the pace. And it had worked. Quickly. That was a good thing. This was what needed to happen. It was nothing to be upset or worried about. But it was hard to keep telling herself that, hard to believe that the fact that she was about to have sex with this guy was perfectly fine when she was just in the process of discovering that even kissing might not be something she was old enough to really enjoy after all.

The first kiss had been alright. Nothing amazing. Lips pressed to other lips the same as you would press them to a hand or cheek or whatever. Just plain physical affection. But now they were getting into the real, grownup kind of kissing. His mouth was open and she tried to open hers the right amount to match, but it always seemed a little off. One or the other of them always seemed to have their lips in the other one's mouth and she really didn't know if that was what it was supposed to feel like or not.

And then there was the tongue thing. This, she knew, was a normal part of passionate, grownup, romantic type kissing. People talked about it enough. But it didn't feel normal. Having someone else's tongue in her mouth felt and tasted really gross. Besides which, she really didn't know what she was supposed to do with her tongue while he was doing that. She was just glad Wesley had his eyes closed so that he couldn't see how uncomfortable she was.

Because apparently, the kissing was really doing it for Wesley. He was breathing harder and making lots of positive sounding noises. When Amal felt his hand creeping up her leg under her dress, she tried making similar mms and ahs of encouragement. Truthfully, his hand on her leg felt a lot better than his tongue in her mouth; weird, but not exactly bad. But she couldn't help her sharp, startled, in taking of breath when that hand got to the top of her leg and started wriggling it's way inside her underwear.

If Wesley noticed that, he didn't give any indication that she could tell. He just reached right on in and squeezed her bottom, bare skin on bare skin. Amal felt like she wanted to make an objection, but she didn't know what it would be. He wasn't hurting her and she certainly didn't want him to stop and stare at her for another hour. Her skirt was bunch up almost to her waist now, and her legs were cold, but that didn't seem important enough to interrupt him.

“Oh, yes,” he sighed, practically in her ear as he massaged her bare backside with his fingers and used the same strong arm to pull her closer to him. He leaned in towards her more and at a slowly declining angle, becoming more and more on top of her and less and less beside her, while still arranging for the bed to bare almost all of his weight.

Finally he pushed her gently onto her back, propping himself above her with one arm. This was no reason at all to feel trapped. She was not actually pinned down or anything. Although she could not have gotten up and left without his cooperation either. But it wasn't like he wouldn't have let her up if she asked. Probably.

Anyway, he was still just kissing her, mostly. Only he was kissing more than her mouth now. He kissed her ears, her neck, and the small gray area between her chest and her neck that peeked out above the top of her very modest dress. All of that was at least interesting, way better than the tongue-in-mouth routine.

Amal was pretty sure she felt something now, something besides the fear and discomfort. Something sexual? She supposed so. The closest she'd ever been to sex before was having a guy she kind of liked sort of smile at her, but some things were hard to mistake for anything else. Like the fact that, when Wesley pulled her panties down to her knees and started touching then rubbing her private parts, only half of her wanted him to stop, no matter how weird the whole situation felt.

“So soft,” he mumbled, stroking the sparse coat of fine dark hair that covered her pubic area. It sounded oddly like a question. Amal squirmed just a little unable to hide her discomfort. I mean, what could you say to that? She couldn't even tell if he thought it was a good thing or a bad thing. She had to bite her tongue to keep from telling him that she didn't need to be _reminded_ that she didn't have a completely grown up woman's body, especially if he thought that was a compliment.

Suddenly, Wesley backed away towards the edge of the bed and sat up. “I'm alright,” Amal assured him, thinking that she had put him off with her silent disapproval. “Keep going,” she urged. He seemed uncertain for a moment. “Please,” she added quietly, dropping her eyes, embarrassed to have to say all that in so many words.

“Oh, no, I—” There was a smile in Wesley's voice bordering on a laugh. “I didn't intend on stopping. I was just—” now it was his turn to be a bit embarrassed, “I was just thinking we might like to get all of these clothes out of our way. If that's alright.” He added hastily.

Amal squirmed a little more at the thought. Talking had been a mistake she thought. It was all too real this way. She didn't think she wanted to have to watch him undress and she certainly didn't want him staring at her while she took the rest of her clothes off. “Under the covers,” she said finally, “with the lights off.”

Wesley nodded and said, “Yes. Yes of course.” He seemed disappointed, or reticent, or something. He was neither pleased nor angry. Other than that it was hard to tell. Regardless, he got up and turned all the lights off except the one coming through the open bathroom door, leaving the room closer to dark than bright, though Wesley's returning form was still somewhat more substantial than a shadow among shadows.

Amal crawled under the bedspread, not bothering with the very tightly tucked in top sheet. She lay on her side, facing away from Wesley and reached behind her back to unzip herself. Wriggling out of her dress while lying down under the covers was a little trickier than she'd imagined, but it didn't really take too long either.

In the process, her panties has worked their way down to her ankles. She kicked them off like socks and turned to look over her shoulder. She wanted to make sure Wesley wasn't already finished undressing and standing there staring at her. She had that creepy feeling of being watched, covers or not.

But Wesley wasn't watching her. He stood with is back to her, his bare back, as she could plainly see, even in the dim light. He was maybe two feet away from her, inches from his side of the bed. She could have stretched out her arm and touched him. It was a strange thought, one that made her feel oddly pleased, like someone with an amusing secret.

And then, all at once he dropped his trousers and pants, baring his behind. It was not ridiculously hairy, but neither was it completely without hair. He was a grown man. He was maybe two feet away from her, inches from his side of the bed. She could have stretched out her arm and touched him. It was a strange thought, one that made her feel deeply unsettled. Like someone learning a terrifying secret.

'This isn't happening,' she thought, 'This is insane. I don't belong here. Where is my life? This is not it.'

Wesley stepped out of his trousers and turned toward the bed. Amal thought that she should look away but she didn't. It wasn't that she wanted to see him from the front exactly, but suddenly she found it difficult to make a decision, even one as simple as move or don't move, look or don't look. He started just a bit when he saw her staring at him in the darkness. She wanted to say that she hadn't meant to watch him, but it would have been a waste of breath.

Truthfully, in the dark, there wasn't that much to see. She could tell that there were body parts there, dangling between his legs, and about the right shape that they reasonably ought to be. It and the stuff around It. It wasn't as large as she would have thought, nor sticking out in front of him the way she might have imagined. But maybe that was because she hadn't done whatever she was supposed to do to get it to do all that.

Not that she'd have to wonder long, Amal realized. Wesley lifted up the edge of the bedspread and climbed into bed. He reached for her, pulling her naked body into his naked arms, holding it against his own. He buried his face in her hair and let out a sound between a sign and a moan. He ran his hands up and down her body. She felt his penis twitch against her thigh.

Amal shuddered. Whether it was a good or a bad shudder was a complicated question. Mostly, she was scared, but it was hard to untangle the black, ugly fear of being trapped in bed with a naked stranger from the light, giddy fear of stepping into an unknown adult world rumored to offer pleasures more intense than any mere child could possibly imagine.

And then there were the parts that weren't really fear at all. There was bone-deep embarrassment, bordering on disgust that made her want to clench her legs together and keep them that way forever. But there was also a physical sensation permeating her vulva and all the surrounding area, an almost electric tingling that wanted to be touched like he had touched her before. The tips of her nipples, pressed against his bare chest shared this desire. Which for lack of a better explanation, she would have to call lust.

Wesley pulled back from her just a bit. “Are you alright?” he asked, sounding truly worried, “you're shaking.”

Amal, suddenly found it impossible to speak. The attempt would have lead to tears. She shook her head instead, meaning to dismiss his concern. He couldn't really see her, but it didn't matter. He was close enough to feel her head shaking. Except that was the wrong answer, to what he'd actually asked.

She could feel him starting to back off a little more. That was no good. The last thing she wanted was to cause yet another delay. She was tired and confused and terrified of screwing things up. She didn't care about love or romance anymore. Not right now anyway. She wanted to get this over with.

She still couldn't speak. There were tears in her eyes and a lump in her throat that wouldn't quite go down. Which was stupid. Like it or not, this was her husband. The only one she was ever likely to have. All he wanted to do was have sex with her. He wasn't going to kill her. Sex was supposed to be one of the good parts of life. She should just do it and maybe it would turn out to be great and everything would be all better.

But there was one problem with that. She had let too long a moment pass, and now Wesley was really pulling away from her, his worry deepening. “We don't have—that is to say... I'm not in a hurry,” he tried to reassure her. But he sounded disappointed. Even if she could manage to speak now, Amal realized, it would take more than words to reassure him.

This was a time for action. She moved towards him. Put her arms around him. Pulled him to her. She grabbed him by the behind, the way he had done to her earlier. “Oh my!” he gasped, pleasantly shocked, and started kissing her again with his tongue in her mouth. He really was on top of her now. She really was pinned beneath him. There was no way she could have possibly pushed her way out from under him if he didn't want her to. His body was hot and heavy, even if the bed was still supporting most of it.

The feel of Wesley's naked, sweat-damp flesh pressing down on every inch of the anterior surface of her body defied categorization. It felt too real and yet too alien, as though Amal were viscerally experiencing something that clearly must be happening someone else, to some adult or nearly adult woman whose body she suddenly found herself inhabiting. A woman whose unaccountable inclination was to cling even tighter to the man on top of her as Amal's terror and confusion increased.

Welsey had his hands all over her body now, and his face too. He squeezed her small breast in his hands and rubbed her nipples with his thumbs while he kissed and licked and nuzzled her neck and shoulders and ears, all of the time moving and groaning and breathing heavily as he sort of rubbed his stiffening penis between their two bodies. She supposed that answered the question of what she was supposed to do to get it ready. Just laying there and not complaining, making noises that sounded like the ones he was making, seemed to be working just fine.

Amal even though she might technically be enjoying it. She was definitely sure she felt something down there now, and not just the occasional brush of a penis. It was a swelling, tingling sort of sensation, related to but not the same as the feeling she felt in her breasts when he touched them not only with his hands but with his mouth. Which he was doing more and more now, sucking first one and then the other as far into his mouth as it would go, rolling his tongue over her nipples. Her deep, ragged breathing and rapid heart rate were unquestionably for more than one reason now, not only fear, but at the same time genuine excitement. She hadn't know the two could coexist so well.

Still, however much Wesley was enjoying his own exploration of her body, Amal was sure some sort of reciprocation was expected. She'd spent the last several minutes with both hands clutched tightly in the same place, holding onto his back a few inches below the shoulder blades. Now she made a conscious effort to move them around more, sliding them along his back and sides and even his backside.

That was pretty much the limit of her active participation. She couldn't reach his legs and she didn't think she would have had the nerve to reach for his private parts even if it hadn't meant awkwardly trying to reach into the complete lack of space between their two bodies. Instead, she tried kissing him on the neck and chest and shoulders, which were all the parts her mouth could reach.

Something she was doing must have been working because Wesley's breathing got even heavier. “Oh, oh my!” he sighed/gasped/quietly-shouted. “You are eager, aren't you!” He slipped a hand between their bodies and down in between her legs. Apparently, from on top, it wasn't that awkward a maneuver.

Amal squirmed at little, just a bit uncomfortably. Somehow the controlled, willful explorations of his fingers felt a little more invasive than the rhythmic rubbing of his penis had. Not to mention less stimulating. Mainly because the fingers were tending to focus lower down, fiddling among her labia near the entrance to her vagina rather than in the general area of her clitoris, which she hadn't quit realized was getting so thoroughly rubbed until the rubbing stopped.

Amal bit her lip for a moment, not wanting to make any noises of discomfort or embarrassment. But she couldn't help giving a startled gasp when Wesley actually slid first one and then two fingers inside her, carefully, experimentally. As if testing her reaction.

Amal fought down panic. Physically, what he was doing was only a little bit uncomfortable. Besides, it probably meant he was getting ready to finally start the actual sex part of the sex, which meant he was getting closer to being finished. She should be encouraging him, not wimping out. But the annoying, prodding feeling of his fingers inside her wasn't making her look forward to being penetrated by anything larger. Not even a little bit.

~~~~~

The garage was converted from an old barn with a hayloft that had once been converted into a one room flat (presumably for a chauffeur) but was now more of a storage space again, apparently. There was still an electric light, which Heathcliff switched on. It didn't take him long to find the box, which he handed down to Rupert before climbing back down himself. It was the size of a large briefcase and made of dark wood, intricately carved in geometric patterns. It smelled of resin, dust, and time.

“Pity you can't come up,” Heathcliff said. “We used to play up here, Walter and I.” Rupert ignored that. He'd talked as much as he wanted to about old times. He opened the passenger door of Heathcliff's car and got in. No one needed to say that the porch wasn't safe, that they couldn't risk Malalai seeing what they were up to. To have met her was enough.

Heathcliff got in too, and nodded his permission for Rupert to open the box. It contained a great deal more than Rupert had expected. Not only a larger number of small bags of pale brown powder but also a complete rig for injecting it, including several unopened syringes, still in the plastic. Besides that there were at least a dozen different kinds of pills, each in an unlabeled bottle with a different colored cap. Not to mention at least an ounce of hash and two quart bottles of good whiskey.

There were bundles of cash too; US, British and Afghan currencies, several thousand pounds worth of each, in large bills. But what jarred Rupert a bit were the crosses, Eucharist wafers, vials of holey water and several small, softcover books, including at least one bible, well worn from the look of it. Heathcliff followed his gaze and smiled towards a laugh. “You'd be surprised what you crave when someone tells you can't have it,” he said.

“This is your personal stash then?” Rupert asked, a bit worriedly. “You aren't using this stuff every day are you?” It was clear that he meant the heroin.

Heathcliff frowned. “Do you want it or not?” he asked.

Rupert sighed. “I want it. Very much,” he admitted. Who was he to judge Heathcliff's choice of vices. Or anybody's. After all, the man looked as though he were keeping himself together alright. If this evening was an example of what his life was like, small wonder if he needed a bit of chemical assistance with that.

~~~~~

Sex. Here it was at last, what Wesley had been telling himself he didn't really need, didn't really miss, could do just as well for himself, and that infrequently, lest it take time away from anything truly important. But the taste, the smell, the surge of lightning in his veins, the relief of throwing logic and ethics and circumstances to the wind and letting desire swallow him whole, was indescribable. Hardly a thing to be classed in the same category with his mechanistic, bimonthly auto-erotic release. No more than an ape was like a god.

Amal's body took some getting used to. She was so much slighter than any woman he had ever been with though only a bit shorter in stature. The hair on her body was soft and fine with no sign of being shaped or managed in any way. Her kiss was uncertain and her hands hesitant upon his skin. Her hips were not so round as he might have liked; but her small breasts were soft and round as a woman's should be with nipples that stood up firmly against his tongue.

Best of all, she seemed genuinely pleased with what was happening between them. Her sounds of pleasure nearly matched his own and if her movements were clumsy and uncertain, they were none the less eager. Despite the fundamentally unbalanced power dynamics between them, he was finding it easier to accept Rupert's suggestion that what he was doing was nothing like rape, or at least it needn't be. Rape seemed like too harsh a word for introducing someone to pleasures she simply hadn't previously realized she wanted. Needed even.

Encouraged by her little sighs, her moans, her heavy breathing, Wesley moved a hand down between her legs. Her sexual parts felt softer, wetter, and hotter than when he'd first laid hands on them a few minutes ago, still fully dressed on top of the covers. Her vagina was opening up to him, like a flower, he thought, smiling at the image. There was something paradoxically sweet and sordid in the idea of having a virgin bride of his very own to deflower at that.

Wesley was ready. Oh God was he ready! He had never been more ready for anything in his entire life than he was to have sex tonight. He couldn't help but smile at the gasp that Amal let out when he slid first one and then two fingers inside her. “Yes,” he breathed as he took a moment to explore her with his fingers. She felt so perfect. As hard as his cock was already, it somehow manages to get just a bit harder.

“Oh, yes,” Amal agreed after a moment, there was a tremulous quality to her voice as if she were amazed by, perhaps even just a bit afraid of her own desire. Wesley kissed her mouth, deeply, passionately, reassuringly. From the way she kissed him back, from the way she moaned low in her throat as his exploring tongue plunged into her mouth, Wesley know that this was the moment, that she was as ready as he was.

A scrap to Jewish Scripture fluttered through Wesley's brain. _And they shall become one flesh._ No ancient sacred text had ever seemed so right or soimportant. “It's time,” he whispered between ragged breaths. Amal was too overcome to speak, but she sighed and nodded and moved her legs just a bit further apart. He reached down and repositioned them a little more, tilting her hips to a better angle, one learned from experience.

When his penis finally sank inside her, the pleasure and excitement were so excruciating that he didn't dare move for fear that he would come at once. Amal went suddenly still beneath him, as though unsure what to do. Wesley shushed the inner voice that said of course she was unsure, nothing in her experience had prepared her for this, and she was still so very young. He couldn't think about that now. His cock with inside her, sheathed tight inside her. And all it wanted was to thrust.

In moments it was over. It might have been two thrusts or two-dozen. He was beyond that ability to count. Amal continued to make little noises of pleasure and excitement, though nothing to match his own suddenly uncontrollable shout of delight. “Oh, Yes! Good Lord, yes! Oh, God, I love you, My Darling!”

One became two again. Wesley's heart rate slowed. Amal lay beside him with a strange, unreadable expression. Relief might have been part of it. And maybe regret. Perhaps it hadn't been all she'd hoped? Despite seeming pretty turned on through the whole proceeding; if she had come, he certainly couldn't tell when it was.

He was tempted to reassure her that it would be better next time. But that seemed to be putting too fine a point on an embarrassing subject. Instead, he just held her in his arms, glad to know that there probably would be a next time, that their marriage might be a comfort to them both rather than an onerous obligation.

If she rested there beside him only for a moment before jumping up to hop in the shower, that was no cause for alarm. It was a religious obligation after all. She was devout.

~~~~~

Rupert tried to slip into bed without disturbing Buffy, but that was as hopeless a cause as, well, sneaking up on a Slayer. “'time's'it?” she murmured sleepily.

“Too near morning,” he answered with a yawn, sliding under the covers, where Buffy snuggled against him, carefully avoiding his injured hip without having to be asked. He smiled. She really was a hell of a girl. He was a lucky, lucky man, broken bones not withstanding.

He continued to think so even after she gave that familiar, pensive sigh that told him he wouldn't be allowed to sleep for at least a little while yet.

“If you had any secrets left,” she asked worriedly, “I mean any big secrets, you'd tell me wouldn't you?”

“Of course, Darling,” Giles assured her tenderly, convincingly. It was an easy lie. One he had told to many people many times. Mostly it was a lie people wanted to be told, wanted to believe. It saved them from having to feel that they should have pushed harder to learn things they were better off not knowing, shielded them from having to believe things they actually knew.

“Oh good,” Buffy yawned. “I mean, not that I thought... but it's good to know there aren't going to be anymore huge surprises.”

Giles laughed. “I don't know about that,” he said, “but from now on, hopefully we'll be surprising each other with our future rather than our pasts.”

“I love you,” Buffy mumbled, snuggling even closer.

“ I love you too, Darling,” Giles assured her, kissing her tenderly before they both drifted off to sleep.

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